


only for you

by ofserien



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Story, Attempted Murder, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First POTO Fic, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Murder, Mystery, Romance, angst dead ahead, don't worry about it he'll be fine, each chapter will have a trigger warning when such things will be discussed or heavily implied, erik has multiple breakdowns, i will defend that musical until my dying day though, just assume i rewrote all of love never dies, please be kind :), references to mental issues and mental distress, the canon outline has been taken out to the back and shot, this fic starts at the end of phantom and gets wilder don't @ me, we love and respect madame giry in this household
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 106,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofserien/pseuds/ofserien
Summary: “My darling, you are more than enough than the world that has handicapped you.” It wasn’t more than a simple whisper, but it was ringing and pure, and the horrifying man sank to his knees, fingers shaking and eyes bleeding unspoken emotion, now no more coherent than the boy he once was, long ago.beta-read by: WinglessOneOf all people, it was Meg Giry who'd found the mask. And of all people, it'd be Meg Giry to find the man beneath it. After the events of The Phantom of the Opera, an odd trio sails across the Atlantic towards a new start, away from crime and punishment and what Meg so dearly holds as her home. But when murderous trouble follows them to New York City, they suddenly find themselves in a web of death and lies, orchestrated by a man only known as 'Jack'. Who is this man? What is the motive behind this murderous spree? And how is he connected to Meg? Together, Meg and Erik will be faced with a mystery -- one much closer to their hearts than they might have ever bargained for.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera & Meg Giry, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry
Comments: 224
Kudos: 79





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first POTO fic, so please be gentle :). I'd love feedback though! And be kind with Meg too. I know we love our blonde baddie (I love her too), but she started as sweet and supportive, so that's where we'll begin here, too. I hope you guys enjoy!

The mask was porcelain and warm and odd as Meg held the object in her hands. The edges felt sanded and smooth, as did the expanse of it as she skimmed her finger tip over the bleached exterior. Her index finger traced the carved brow and eye hole, brushing the slope of nose and lingering down where swollen lips would have met a hard surface. The perimeter was next until she lifted it to her face, holding it against herself as she peered in the mirror, half daunting and half girl. She shivered, bringing it back down to her lap, and slid the strange costume into her bag, shrugging it back onto her shoulder.

Meg sprints to the mob, glancing over to attempt to catch sight of her mother, or of Raoul and Christine. She ached to know of whether Christine was well, though she rather figured she was not.

“Where’s Christine?” She asks desperately, pleading with the others. No one glanced her way, too focused on hunting down the masked figure. A hand cups her shoulder, and Meg turns, jumping away from the touch as she glances up at a strange, tall man. He led her to the side, away from the raging crowd, and mumbled to her in low tones.

Meg rather thought he looked Persian, though she couldn’t be for sure. She’d never been out of France, and didn’t associate with others much outside of the opera house. One Thousand and One Nights was tale her mother read to her frequently when she was younger, and she rather thought this man fit the description, with the red cap that sat atop his head.

“You are Antoinette’s daughter, yes? Marguerite?” The man said, his baritone and rich but weathered sound.

“Y-yes. Yes, that’s me, but you can just call me Meg,” she stutters out, still wary of him. She very nearly turned away before he asked of a masked man.

“Y-yes, Monsieur. The Phantom of the Opera - he kidnapped my best friend and killed our lead. Do you know of him?” She asks, her fingers catching at the sides of her trousers, nervously pressing into her thighs.

The man chuckles. “The Phantom of the Opera? That’s what he’s calling himself now? I suppose it’s no different from The Angel of Death, though more theatrical, I suppose.”

The blonde gapes openly at him. “Do you know this man, monsieur?” Before she allows him to respond, she adds, “And how did you know my name? And my mother’s?”

“All in due time, Mademoiselle. My name is Nadir Kahn. I met your mother a few years back, and she’s recently written for me, beckoning to return. I rather figured it was due to something like this.” He said this all so calmly and quietly that it frightened Meg, to know that there was something else to the story of the Phantom, and that her mother was involved.

Anger boiled in her. Why was her mother involved?

“Come, let’s find your mother,” he gestures, and after a moment of hesitation, she follows him back into the crowd and toward a frantic Madame Giry, who’s worry melted once she laid eyes on her daughter.

“Foolish girl, don’t be running off!” Her mother chastises before crushing her in a brief embrace. I She can feel the exact moment her mother spots Nadir, as she stiffens and pulls away from her, her arm still wrapped around Meg’s shoulders. “You’ve finally come. It only took you three years.”

Meg narrows her eyes at him. “You said that she wrote you recently.”

Madame Giry snorts. “It probably was recent for him. A month for him is a year for us.”

Meg giggles before her mother continues. “I know you will disagree with me, Nadir, but he’s like a son to me, regardless of his sins. I want to secure him safe passage to somewhere he can start over, and learn to become a man again.” She pauses for a moment, a deliberating look suddenly crossing her features. “But this can’t be another grand escapade for him, where he finds a new place and wreaks havoc.”

Before Meg could even begin to question her mother, she heard her name yelled across the room, and suddenly a heap of white was bounding toward her, and Meg met her halfway. “Oh Chris, you had me worried sick!”

“Please come upstairs with me . . . Raoul is with the gendarmerie, and I have to speak with them soon and I don’t want to be alone right now . . . “ Her voice was groggy and cracked frequently, and Meg’s chest felt heavy.

“Of course, let’s go up. Let’s get you out of this dress, too.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was late - so late, that Meg figured it was morning by the time she had made it to the hotel.

“Oh, Meg, how I’ll miss you so!” Christine croons, wrapping the blonde in her arms. “We’ll keep in touch, and I promise we will be together again someday.”

“Must you leave, Christine?” Meg wonders quietly, tightly returning the soprano’s hug.

“Raoul and I must, Meg. There’s too many painful memories here . . . and Raoul has family in Italy who we are to stay with . . . “ she explains, and Meg nods against her.

“It’s alright, Christine, I understand, but I’ll miss you everyday.” They pull away from each other and tears gather in both girls’ eyes.

“I’ll miss you too, Meggie.”

They hug goodbye again, and talk of plans to share breakfast tomorrow morning at Le Entr’acte, where Meg would see Christine and Raoul off on the train. She waves away the couple as they board the carriage and speed off down the Parisian streets, the horse’s feet gently trotting in the distance.

Meg stood in the night longer, her arms coming about herself to ward off the cold. She felt small, and perhaps helpless in the dark city that was once so homely and welcome. The dancer felt as if she were a stranger, snooping on the nightly happenings as if she weren’t a part of them, as if this weren’t her city. Paris suddenly felt foreign, and an ache filled her stomach and welled in her throat. Lanterns twinkled about her as she blindly gazed at the wrecked opera house, it’s once grandiose exterior now nothing more than burnt damage. Grief and nostalgia clawed at her chest at the sight, but pushed it back down as icy rain began to trickle from the night sky. She pulled her coverlet tighter around her, and turned to make her way into the hotel, where she was sure her mother was surely waiting, and surely furious.

“Mademoiselle,” the chauffeur greeted, holding the door open for Meg to step through. She smiles and thanks him, now anxious to get back to her mother so she could have a warm bath, warm blankets, and after her mother’s scolding, perhaps ask what on earth she had been talking about earlier today.

The lobby of the hotel was windowless but cheerful, small but cozy, and Meg loved it. It was a circular common, golden, beautiful, and well-lighted. There was an array of chairs and other miscellaneous furniture, and a corner with refreshments and snacks that Meg was tempted to sample. The receptionist called for her name, which she provided, and said that her family had already arrived, and were waiting anxiously for her. After referring her to the room, she thanked him and made her way toward the grand staircase, carefully making her way up the stairs.

The second floor was just as beautiful and grand as the first, as Meg wondered for a second how her mother had been able to afford this. Though they were comfortable, this certainly exceeded what their income could afford. Though she certainly wasn’t complaining! The place was gorgeous, and she hoped the bed was just as cozy.

The room, 241, was on her left as she glanced down both hallways, and she knocked quietly on the door. There was a frenzy inside, and it sounded as if something had dropped, and then low comforting whispers from her mother on the other side, and Meg’s heart dropped to her stomach. She pushed on the handle, the door unlocked, and came inside the brown, lofty room. Sweet-smelling and warm, just as she’d hoped, except for the tall man on the floor with her mother, a rag in her hand cleaning his ruined face. Meg’s eyes widened, as she knew exactly who this was.

Before she could even scream, the man was in front of her, a hand clamped over her mouth.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

this beautiful illustration was made by the WONDERFUL mysteriarchofthepen/candalor. thank you SO much <3


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg and the Phantom have certainly met before, though only one of them remembers it. Madame Giry and a mysterious friend plan to aid the Phantom's escape, but Meg won't have any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapters! I got a few comments on my last chapter, and they meant the world to me :). It really helped motivate me to continue, so thank you so much guys! Please enjoy the next chapter!

This wasn’t the first time Marguerite Giry had met the Opera Ghost, though she certainly didn’t remember the first time. The strange man in front of her certainly did, however, and though it would be loathe to admit it, it was a memory that resurfaced each time he had laid unknowing eyes on her. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Marguerite Giry was still a small little thing, still studying her number tables, how to tell time, and barely beginning her ballet instruction. Her mother had tucked her into her bed, blankets cocooned around her and fluffy pillows beneath her head, a halo of golden around. Her mother placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and promised extra bedtime stories if she was a good girl and went to sleep. 

“But Maman!” She whined, scrunching her face up and crossing her arms. “No fair!” 

The Madame chuckled, tweaking the little girl’s nose, to which she giggled and batted her hands toward her mother. “Bonne nuit, ma choupette.” 

“Bonne nuit, Maman,” the little girl said, as her mother brushed a strand of honey from her forehead and stood to leave the bedroom they shared. She left the candle blazing, the small child still afraid of the dark, and left the room quietly, promising to be back soon. 

After counting all of her fingers three times so her mother wouldn’t be suspicious, Meg slips out of her bed, sliding Maman’s larger slippers onto her feet, and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders to ward off the cold. The girl sneaks out of the room, opening the door slowly and quietly, padding down the hallway toward where candlelight cast menacing shadows in the bathroom. Meg thought she saw two figures in there, not just her mother, and fear and curiosity filled her head. Who was mother with? 

She crawls onto her stomach, leaning her ear against the door, and hears her mother and - was it a boy?- talking quietly to each other. 

“What were you thinking, going outside?” Her mother scolds, and she can practically hear the boy’s head drop in shame. “You could have been killed, Erik. It’s a wonder they didn’t follow you home.” 

“Home,” he repeats, and Meg’s eyes widen at his voice. It was dewy and dripping something sweet, and it made her want to dance and sing with him. She rather would have liked him to read One Thousand and One Nights to her, or sing lullabies. Perhaps she’d ask mother later. 

“I’m sorry, Madame. I had opened a window in the chapel, and something smelled so heavenly, and I was very hungry. But I won’t do it again.” There was a sigh of resignation, and a beat of silence before Maman spoke again, and used the same voice that she used when Meg was hurt or upset. 

“Next time, ask me, and I’ll help you, alright?” She replies, gentle and soft. There was a moment of silence, a sniffle, and then a gasp and a wince. 

“Just a bit longer, mon petit oiseau. We’re almost done.” 

A few seconds more, and Meg’s heart pulls when she realizes that he’s hurt, and that’s why mother was so upset. But why was he hurt? And since when had a boy with a strange voice been living in the chapel? 

She makes to roll away and leave, but as she shifts her weight, the floorboards creak, and her heart drops to the pit of her stomach. Meg scrambles upwards to run away, but Maman opens the door too quickly, and finds her there, barely even off the ground yet. 

“And just what, Marguerite Giry, are you doing out of bed?” She said sternly, the door halfway closed, the boy hidden from Meg’s view as she attempts to sneak between her mother’s legs. 

“Non, ma choupette. Back to sleep with you.” She’s lifted into her mother’s arms, and Meg attempts to look over her shoulder at the boy. He stands in front of the door, a hand with long fingers cradling the side of his face, and her eyes widen. His hair was like dripping ink, raven black and curled at the bottom of his neck and across his forehead. Some swollen lip peaked out from behind his fingers, and she thought she saw red and pink puckered skin that wasn’t hidden. But most of all were the mismatched eyes staring back at her: one pale blue, and the other, stormy gray, nearly black. 

The next time she had seen him, Madame Giry had brought the boy into her bedroom one night, and standing at his full height, it was frightening how he neary dwarfed Maman, and Meg shivered beneath her blankets. But when mismatched eyes found hers again, she felt calm again, though the boy seemed frightened. He now had a black mask covering the half of his face, and Meg cocked her had at him. 

“Why do you wear a mask, Monsieur?” She asked, and the boy looked to her mother, his hands and fingers trembling. 

He shakily removed the mask, but Meg didn’t feel frightened. But she did wonder why he looked so different from everyone else. Had he done something wrong? 

“This is the boy you saw the other night, Meggie,” her mother explained, and her eyes widened with association. “We must not tell anyone about him, alright? Not even Papa.”

Meg nods, clasping her hands together. The boy stares at her as she crawls out of bed and approaches him, and he kneels on the floor, worried eyes cast on hers. Meg begins pressing kisses to the damaged side of his face, and he recoils in shock, frightening Meg as she tumbles to her mother, hiding behind her legs. 

“I’m sorry, Maman!” Meg apologizes before beginning to cry. You also kiss me when I get hurt and I feel better, and he looked like he was hurting too.” 

That was the last time Marguerite Giry ever talked to the boy. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Get off me!” Meg yells, pushing against his chest, her words muted and jumbled from his expansive hand. She begins to cry, frightened as she now found his face, his horribly ruined face, and she fights harder now. He lets her go and she runs to her mother, her fingers latching onto her dress. 

“Maman, what is he doing here? What are we doing here? What’s going on?” She cries, shaking as her mother wraps her arms around her. 

“Now Meg, stop crying, and I’ll explain everything to you.” She reassures, rubbing her daughter’s back. She casts a pointed, sharp glance at the Phantom, and holds him with her stare. “And you will behave.” 

His fist tightens, a sneer painting his mouth as he glances at Meg, but her gaze drops at the wreckage of the side of his face, and he stomps off to the bathroom, locking himself in. 

“If you want to speak freely, Meg, you must keep your voice lowered,” her Maman warns, and Meg nods her head, a wary glance aimed at the slammed door before returning to her mother’s. 

“Maman, why? How do you know this man?” She takes a steady breath before anger fills her blue eyes. “He hurt Christine and Raoul! He killed Piangi and that stagehand that always frightened us! Why are you helping him?” 

“Though I am very angry at him, Meg, I think going somewhere else, away from Christine and this country that’s given him so much pain would help him,” the Madame explains. 

“Why not turn him in, mother? He’s killed two people, maybe even more than that, he hurt my friend, pretended to be her Angel of Music, tricked her into coming with him, and tried to kill Raoul! And Sorelli said he drowned Phillipe -” 

“Now that is merely rumor, Meg, and Phillipe is alive and well, though I do know he has great opposition against his younger brother marrying Christine. Everything else though, is true.” 

“Maman, what on earth-” 

“And we must leave tonight, Meg. Nadir - the man you met earlier - has secured safe travel to New York City, where we will be safe and far away from everything.” Meg’s expression dropped, and everything she had been feeling outside of the hotel entrance, right after after Christine left, returned to Meg. 

Oh, Christine . . . 

“Christine and I were supposed to have breakfast tomorrow, and I’d stay with them before they left,” she murmured, and her mother cupped her cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry, ma amour. But I’m asking you, as your mother, to come with me. You are not yet old enough to be on your own, nor are you married. And I promise life in America will be better than life here.” 

Meg nods against her mother’s hands, and she slumps against the bed, wrapping a blanket around herself. The bed was as comfy as she had hoped it would be, but it did nothing to relieve her sadness or guilt of leaving Christine. 

She closed her eyes against the incoming of tears now thickly coating her eyes, and everything was quiet after that, for the time being. The bathroom door stayed locked and closed, much to Meg’s relief, and her Maman remained close, which eased her frightened mind. Though when there was a knock on the door, she flinched harshly, nearly colliding with the headboard. 

She covered her eyes with her palms and turned away from the door, curling farther into the mattress. She felt Maman place something on the night table next to her and brushing fingers through her hair before heading to the door and opening it, closing it just as quickly. She hears the low voice of the Persian man she had met earlier that day, and the bathroom door creaked open to her horror. She squeezed her eyes closed farther, as if trying to erase the nightmare. 

“Is the girl asleep?” Nadir asks, and Meg stills suddenly, now willing herself to slow her breathing, as if to appear asleep. She relaxes her eyes and forces her stomach to move slowly, though her heart was still pounding in her chest. 

“Yes. But please keep your voices down. This has been quite a shock for Meg, and I hate having to bring her into this. So let her sleep while she still can,” came her mother’s calm but stern voice. 

There was a rustling of what sounded like papers, and then, “Really, Daroga? New York City?” That was the Phantom, Meg realized, and she shivered again. 

“This is your best bet, Erik. If you’re smart about this, you can start over.” 

“And that means no killing, you stupid boy,” her mother snaps, her tone low and deadly. “Perhaps your time in Persia can be explained away, but not what you’ve done here. You deserve to rot in a prison for what you’ve done.” 

“Better than New York City, Antoinette,” Erik mutters. 

Meg nearly snorts at his name. Erik? Was his name truly Erik? It was much too mundane, too human for someone like him. Perhaps Morpheus or something whimsical and evil would have fit him much better. 

“Careful, or I’ll send you there instead,” Nadir replies hastily. 

“At least send me to one on a tropical island somewhere in the ocean. Humidity is good for the voice, you know.” 

“Says the man who lives under an opera house.” 

“I keep a steamer!” 

“What on earth is a steamer?” 

“Enough!” Her mother snarls, and both men sink back into their chairs. “I’m so sorry, Erik, that New York City isn’t good enough for you,” sarcasm drips from her voice, and Meg nearly chuckles, “but this is your only option.” 

There was a scramble of paper, and Erik spoke again. “At least there’s a spare room on the ship. I would drive myself mad if I had to stay with you lot.” 

“That will be Meg’s and mine. Neither of you are allowed in. Do you understand? And Erik, I swear, if you do anything to hurt Meg, so much as look at her wrong, any compassion that can be given to you, will be taken away.” 

A beat of silence, and then, “I understand, then, Antoinette.” 

Their voices got lower and Meg could hear no more. What would they do once they got to New York City? Would Meg always be stuck with him? 

The hotel door opened and closed again, and the light that had been behind Meg’s eyes was blown out, and all was dark in the room. 

After Madame Giry had settled next to her on the bed, she heard the bathroom door open, and the tall shadow of Erik stretched out on the bed opposite of them, and Meg felt discomfort roil in her nerves. Never before had she slept in the same room as a man before. Her fingers clutched at the cross around her neck as her eyes closed once more from staring into the darkness. 

“Could I write Christine a letter? Just to tell her that I’ve left and that’s why I’m missing breakfast?” 

There was a sharp creak of bed after she mentioned Christine’s name, and the horror of sleeping in the same room of The Phantom of the Opera returned to her again, and she nearly gasped trying to keep her fear at bay. 

“Yes, Meg. Now please, go to sleep.” 

Meg didn’t sleep a wink that night.


	3. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything still feels like a fever dream for Meg, and even has a series of strange ones herself. They board the ship under less than ideal circumstances, and Meg and Erik have some alone time. The author also struggled with this chapter because she just wants them to kiss and not fight for 28 chapters ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Here's chapter three! Thank you so much to everyone who has left comments and kudos :). It means the world to me when I wake up to those.

At some unholy hour in the morning, when Meg finally began to doze off from exhaustion, she felt Maman roll out of bed slowly, as if not to wake the petite blonde. The ballerina’s limbs felt heavy and sore, and took the invitation to lay still. She heard the bed across from her creak, and lithe and wide feet hit the floor. She heard Maman walk near to the man, and they began putting something in piles - it sounded like coins, maybe francs? - and rustling, the plastic around food, Meg assumed. She rolls over, her eyes dimly opening only to find Erik’s - no, that wasn’t right, he was still the unearthly Phantom to her - mismatched glowing in the dark, meeting hers. 

Meg felt a warm flash of something hot run through her, like lightning, settling behind her ribs. His eyes bore into her, and she shivered, feeling penetrated and exposed. Her breathing became more shallow and she was now wide-awake, but was torn half-way between punching him in the gut, or just simply asking why. Why any of it? 

Her Maman was preoccupied with safely stashing papers and coins and food into a bag of luggage, and didn’t notice the heated look between the two. He almost seemed to be daring her with his gaze, to ask him, and she nearly cowered from the intensity of it. Instead, she stared back, though not as fiercely, and read the emotion in his eyes - or what little there was - there. Meg decided then that the porcelain shoved in her bag wasn’t the only mask he dones. 

She suddenly remembers it’s there, and her eyes dart to the bag, and his eyes follow. An understanding seems to sharpen his stare, and Meg rolls over, breaking it. If he wants it back, fine. So be it. It’s not like the gendermenes would be able to follow them to New York. 

With a little discomfort - at least his eyes were off of her - Meg feels the deep and heavy pressure of sleepiness, and dozes off, having a strange dream of dancing on the arms of a clock with her Papa and sweet-smelling wind, somewhere amongst the stars. Maman then came to dance with her father, and Meg was spun into someone else’s arms. But when she glanced up, it was into a face of half-porcelain and mismatched eyes. 

Meg jerks awake to her mother smoothing hair from her forehead, and sits beside her on the bed. “It’s time to leave, Meggie.”

“What time is it?” Her voice groggy and sore from sleep. 

“It’s very early - it’d be in our best interest to be one of the first ones on the ship.”

“Alright, Maman.”

She left the warm bed with a shiver, and the elder Giry helped her daughter change while Erik was in the bathroom. Meg spotted that her bag was gone, and sincerely hoped there was nothing in there that would give away where Christine would be going. 

It was tense and quiet for a few minutes before Meg accidentally bumped into something, meeting the floor with a bump to which she frightened away from. “You clumsy thing, and you call yourself a dancer?” Maman teases, and Meg giggles, grinning as she turns to pick up a steep cup. This seems to thin the tension in the air, and Meg begins to feel comforted again, as if it were just a normal morning (though the sun hadn’t risen yet). As her mother ties her corset, they settle into comfortable conversation, Meg about the newest book she’s reading, and her mother on French politics. 

Once they were finished, Meg’s smile was back on her face and she was her giddy self, but the spell broke when the rudely tall man stepped back into the main room, and silence fell once again. The mask was back on his face, and his hair was neatly combed and slicked back. He held the pink bag out to her, and she snatched it back, holding it to her chest and ignoring the brush of his fingers against hers. It sent a tingle down her spine, and she had the urge to scrub her hands clean of him. 

“Put that bag in your larger one, Meggie. We’ll eat breakfast on the ship,” her mother instructs, and Meg nods, walking over to the bag, kneeling and zipping it open. Inside was a plethora of clothes, her night slippers, ballet and pointe shoes on the bottom. She felt around and found her glittery bag filled with her face powders and lip stains, and to her relief, her fingers found the covers of her beloved books. She haphazardly shoves her bag in, zipping it closed quickly, and standing again, picking the bag up from the floor. Meg slips a coat over her shoulders, and comes to stand before the window, gazing out at Paris for what might be the last time. 

Meg wasn’t sure if she wanted this to be the last time. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to come back, either. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meg wished she could have taken the crisp sea air and the boundless dome of stars and tucked it all into her hands and disappeared into them. She pondered the sky as the trio clustered in the quiet midst of the Paris train station, no one but the homeless in shadowed corners. It was eerie, and reminded Meg of the darkly embroidered atmosphere of Frankenstein, one of the novels she had packed away beneath her hands. The ballerina shivered in her coat as they waited for the train to arrive, ticket clutches in her hand, buried in her pocket. 

It was silent amongst the small group, which was painful for Meg, but what was she to say? Ask how they were all feeling? If they were enjoying the weather? 

The train began to pull in ahead, and Meg hated how the lights in the night gleamed like eyes, always watching her, and before they became mismatched, she broke out of the inanimate stare and stood beside her mother, as far away from the masked man as she could be. As the train approached closer, her mother altered her to be ready to board, and to have her ticket showing. She took the wrinkled paper out of her silken pocket and smoothed the wrinkles from it, their end location read “London”. 

London, she thought, her mind reeling at the fantasy of it. It was a place she’d dreamed of visiting since she was a little girl, dancing and performing at the grand theaters there, and maybe even someday for royalty! She wanted to see all of the castles, the towers, the domes, the shipes, the temples, and the silent sun rising in the morning and setting amongst a bare, pink horizon. Her heart raced as her imagination fled, imagining British boys and tea parties and stages. 

Meg boarded first, determined now to find the best of her situation (she now has the means to travel, assumingly with the Phantom’s income, and granted, he most likely was richer than the king himself) and bound into the transport, feeling light and springy with excitement. She knew it was only a few hours, and though she’d been planning on napping, perhaps she’d read of London instead. No longer would she bury herself into London’s pages, but would instead see it for herself! 

Maman was used to the girl’s bright energy, but Erik certainly wasn’t, as he cast a strange look at the girl. Meg caught the end of the gaze as he looked quickly away, and she deflated slightly at the notion that perhaps she was acting loony. She wished she could say she hardly cared, but the opinion of others weighs heavily among Meg’s shoulders. Her mother always told her that if she fell apart every time a man discouraged her, she’d be nothing more than what a man truly wanted her to be. 

Meg inhaled deeply, imagining the majesty of London again, and it all rushed back to her, and she grinned again. The train was completely empty, which Meg couldn’t decide if she was surprised or not, and her mother and Meg plopped down near the middle, Meg taking the window seat. Erik sat farther back behind them, and Meg nearly mentioned that he wasn’t sitting in his assigned seat. She also remembered that he dropped a chandelier on the audience after being angry that his requested box (which he hadn’t paid for) was full, so she decided not to mention it. Out of slight panic, she glanced around the car, just to make sure there were no chandeliers. 

Meg took out her copy of Frankenstein, opening to the beginning, and barely noticed the train taking off as she became invested in the beginning of letters. Her mother fell asleep rather quickly, so when Meg began to divert her attention away from her novel from giddiness, she considered awaking her mother. She decided against it, and though she was deathly afraid of him, she realized he’d probably traveled to London before. Maybe even to places she’d never heard of. 

As if on cue, his baritone rumbled behind her, “I didn’t know you were a reader, Mademoiselle.” 

After a moment, before she could regret it, she stood carefully and stepped around her mother, making her way back to his seat. She slid in across for him, ignoring his wide eyes. “Have you read it? Frankenstein?” 

“That wasn’t an invitation to join me, Mademoi-”

“Just call me Meg. It’s so rare I’m called “Mademoiselle”, and it’s a mouthful anyway,” she replies in a blurt before she even considers the response. 

“Alright, Meg,” he says, emphasizing her name, “have you read it before?”

“Oh, yes! I have, many times,” a grin crawling across her mouth. “It’s one of my favorites! The first time I read it, though, I hated it.” He doesn’t respond, so she continues on. “It disgusted me how he was created from pieces of corpses and reanimated through the supernatural and science - how can the dead be used for scientific experimentation? Not only is it disrespectful, but it’s rather gruesome. No sane person could stomach that. I’d never even considered someone coming back from the dead before reading it, and I had nightmares for weeks. And when he somehow follows Victor to the North Pole! Terrifying.” 

Still no response from him, but she continues on. 

“I fell in love with it after I realized the underlying meaning. When Victor tried to play God, when he tried to create life and forge a different future, he ruined his own. There’s so much horror and death even though the beginning is wonderful and hopeful. And how society is shown! It needs to be a wake-up call for the rest of us, that society is unaccepting and unkind.”

“You talk rather incessantly, Meg.”

A bolt of shame and anger shoots down her spine at his comment, and she tries to fight for semblance. She didn’t have to for long, thankfully. 

“However, all of what you said, I can agree with.”

She lights up. “Truly? 

He glances away from her out the window, and mutters, “Perhaps.” 

Meg nods, wanting to ask him more of his thoughts on the novel and of London, and perhaps anywhere else he’s gone, but she stays quiet. She considers going back to her mother, but fears waking her from her nap. She instead reopens her novel, sits sideways across the chairs, her back against the cool window, and continues on. He doesn’t ask her to leave again, and she realizes he isn’t as scary when he’s reserved and, well, not killing people. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───  
She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until the train came to a stop, and she noticed that her novel had been placed on the table, the bookmark rather too neatly inserted than what she would have done, if she’d even put it in. She sends a suspicious glance toward the Phantom before shoving it back into her bag, making her way back to her mother. 

The train car was still empty, though when they exited, the space was beginning to fill up with travelers, and she watched the Phantom throw a black fedora over his head, casting shadows over his face, almost making the porcelain blend into the paleness of the other side. 

The walk to the peer was thankfully a short one, and Meg watched as the sky began to lighten, though she could still spot the moon and some of the stars. Excitement riled through her at being in London, though it was rather disappointing that a brown fog covered some of the light the lanterns let off, but she reasoned that at least it wasn’t raining. 

They boarded the ship as a small family, though much to her disgust, her and the Phantom posed as a married couple (as to only need to purchase one room, and she couldn’t be mad, because Meg had been the one to suggest it anyway), as he looked wildly different from both of them. He looked too young to act as her father, and she wondered then just how old he was. She glanced at him from her peripheral vision, and found that though the good side of his face was - dare she say it - handsome, it didn’t seem wildly aged, nor as young as she. 

Before they board, he holds a stiff arm out for her, and she just as awkwardly takes it. 

His voice nearly makes her jump. “For all of your artistic talent, Mademoiselle, you are a terrible actress.” 

Meg glares back. “And for all of yours, you’re a terrible person.” 

He almost seemed startled for a moment as he turned to look down at her, and responded, “Touche, mon petit monstre.” 

She rolls her eyes, looking back forward, and attempts to loosen herself up, as if she were about to perform. That’s all this was, she decided. A grand performance, and this was the dance. 

She stared out into the dark sea and air, and nearly forgot about the arm of the man she was on. She was excited to go to America, to travel outside of Paris, to see a new part of the world. She’d already heard so much about America - how free they were, how crazy and fun the Americans were, how they partied every night and made unbelievable amounts of money the next day. 

And also how they speak English, and Meg doesn’t even know what English sounds like. She did, however, figure that the mad genius next to her would know something of it. 

“Do you know English, Monsieur?” She asks him, still looking beyond the black waves, alight from the early morning. She could feel his surprised gaze on her, but Meg had never been one to stay silent for very long. Even, apparently, with a murderer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you do. From what Christine told me, there wasn’t one thing you couldn’t do.” 

She knew immediately when she said her name that he wouldn’t like that, but the thought came too soon. “Never say her name again,” he warns her in a low, trying voice. 

Meg suddenly feels defiant, but continues to gaze out at the blue, cool sea. “She’s my friend, Monsieur, and I will speak of her if I wish. I will speak of whomever, if I so wish.” 

There was a beat, and then a crushing grip around her wrists. She was wrenched away from the sea, now facing him directly. His face was close to hers, and she could feel the cool ring on his finger pressing against her skin. He stood tall above her, as if to prove an intimidating posture, and it worked entirely too well. 

“While that may be true, Marguerite Giry,” he hisses, “you will not speak her name in my presence, ever. Do you understand me?” 

“Let me go!” She says, attempting to wrench away, but he pulls her closer. “You’re hurting me!”

He immediately lets her go, and she scrambles away, putting a few feet between them. All menace is gone from his voice, but she can still feel the power in his words, some horrible promise lying beneath them. “Do you understand?” 

She took a startled, shaky breath. “Y-yes, Monsieur.” 

Their arms don’t connect again until Madame Giry returns, and he doesn’t comment of her uncomfortable features or stiffness. Once they had reached the front of the boat, their false tickets and papers in hand, they were allowed entry, and the man gave the masked man a strange look, up and down. She felt his gaze sharpen on the man, but with a quick shove of Madame Giry’s elbow into Erik’s ribs, he backed off, though she heard him growl insults to both of them. 

Her fingers tightened on his arm as they passed others, and anxiety ripped through her if any of them were to be recognized. She knew that thinking herself would be more of her wish to be important and be acknowledged for her skills, but perhaps she could be, though there were more brunettes than blondes in this part, she was beginning to notice. 

Once they’d made there way to their small room and the door was closed, they fled away from each other to opposite sides of the room, and Meg found the small room her mother had spoken of. She threw her bag in a corner and collapsed on the bed, somehow feeling exhausted. She grumbles, the blanket feeling itchy beneath her. 

Dare she hope for anything better than Parisian life?


	4. chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg and Erik fight, and Madame Giry begins to reveal to Meg more of the past. Our couple exchanges a few words, and a mutual, shaky decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter four! I decided to give our favorite opera boy a full head of hair instead of what was placed in canon since I LOVE the national tour wig design so much.

Meg lounged on the mattress, Frankenstein propped on her knees, though she wasn’t paying much attention. She felt stiff and sore and nearly ached to dance - no, definitely ached, her toes tingle with excitement at the thought of wrapping her feet in pointe shoes - but there was barely any room for two people, much less three. 

The blonde sets the novel down, her bookmark buried in its pages. She couldn’t stop thinking about the ghost outside her room, and strange emotions began to swirl in her chest. He was rude - incredibly rude - but she understood his appeal that must have confused Christine. He was incredibly large - his hands and fingers were ridiculously long, his shoulders broad, and he was well over six feet - and obviously skilled and wealthy. There was also an air of something dark and alluring, which was enticing to herself, as she was sure Christine was too. Meg shivered, remembering his eyes, which unsettled her, but prompted her to never look away, and even draw her nearer. 

But he also doesn’t have half a face, Meg reminds herself, which she deemed almost fair considering his person. Resentment and fear filled that empty place inside of her, remembering Buquet falling above her, the dead body of Piangi, and Christine being dragged away, horrified and screaming. At the thought, a burning, angry thing overwhelmed her, and she wished she had the courage to find the Gendarmerie herself. 

“Meg,” her mother beckons from the other room, knocking on the door. “Breakfast is here.” 

“I’m not hungry,” she lies, though in actuality, she could have eaten enough to feed all of Paris. 

“Never once have I known you to skip a meal,” her mother teases lightheartedly. 

“I’d rather starve than spend another moment with him,” Meg grinds out, her voice a snarl, though half the reason being that she would rather die a thousand times than be attracted to him. She hated herself for even thinking it earlier. 

A low chuckle rumbles from the other side of the door, and her lips press angrily together. “What’s so funny, Monsieur?” 

“You are, my dear,” another chuckle, and then, “Ow!” he cursed at her mother, and this time, Meg could hear the whack. 

Meg stands, wrapping a thin blanket around her shoulders. She opens the door, finding a grumpy phantom, his arms crossed and nearly pouting in his corner. She sends a triumphant smile toward him, and he spins away in a huff, rolling his eyes. 

She heard Maman tsk before turning to Meg. “They forgot to leave us milk. I’ll go grab some quickly downstairs.” 

Meg throws a quick and hurried glance at the brooding man, who was slathering butter on a slice of warm bread. 

“Maman, don’t leave me with him,” she hisses. “Just let me go and fetch the milk.”

“Neither of you are to leave this room until we leave,” she replies, raising her eyebrow sternly. 

“I understand him,” she starts, to which he retorts, “where am I to run to? The fish?” She ignores him, continuing with, “but what am I to do for a week?” 

“Meg, until we leave Europe, you must remain hidden from the public’s view. I’m frightened you may be mentioned or pictured in Parisian newspapers.” 

So perhaps she would be recognized, Meg realized. While that gave her brief elation and purpose, she also felt deflated for what her career could have been. She felt more pinpricks of anger toward the masked man in front of her. 

“I’ll only be a few minutes, Meg. And you,” she says, pointing a finger at the phantom. “Behave.” With that, she leaves the room, and the silence is so thick in the small space that the pair could hear the Madame’s footsteps down the hallway. 

Meg was dumbfounded that her mother had trusted this man with her. Who was he? Why did Maman trust him so much? 

Al courage fled her body, and now she felt terrified, setting her fork down as tremors ran through her fingers. She felt his eyes on her, then, and she glanced up at him warily. 

“Are you frightened of me?” He questions, and Meg nods, inhaling and exhaling slowly, remembering his harsh grip on her wrist, his vile words, his hand covering her mouth. 

“Can you blame me?” She mutters, breaking eye contact and glancing down in her lap. She had half a mind to to dart out of the room and scream for help. Meg counted down the seconds until her mother would return, though the time wasn’t going nearly as fast as the girl thought it should. 

“I’m not going to hurt you. Especially not with your mother’s threats,” he replies, his words seeming careful and precise. 

“So you would hurt me if my mother weren’t here?” 

She hears his sharp inhale more than she sees it. “I never said-”

But Meg cuts in before he can finish. “Like you hurt Christine?” Nothing more than a whispers, but it had the effect of a scream, and she immediately regrets it, remembering what happened last time. 

His hand slams down on the table, and Meg flinches, tears filling her eyes. Gauging her reaction, his fist clenches as if in regret, and he lunges toward the small room. 

“I . . . I didn’t hurt her,” he grits out, as if trying to convince himself. “Enjoy your breakfast, Mademoiselle.” And with that, locks himself in her temporary room. 

Tears stream down her face, staring into her lap, her mind blank of everything except for how she somehow landed herself into this mess. When she hears her mother returning, she quickly wipes away the evidence of her crying. If the Madame notices, she doesn’t mention it, and instead sits with Meg, a hand covering hers. 

“Please understand, Meg. He’s like a son to me.” 

Shock, betrayal and confusion tangle in her mind. All she can respond with, however, as jealousy reared its ugly head, is, “But I’m your daughter!”

“I know,” Maman says, and wraps her arms around the small blonde. “He wasn’t always like this, and I truly believe this will help him.” 

“How can you say that? What he’s done, he can never come back from,” Meg spits, burying her face into Maman’s shoulder. 

“Meg, if you had done the same, I’m selfish enough to whisk you away to a second chance,” she explains quietly, gently rubbing the ballerina’s back.”

“I don’t understand,” Meg whispers, “and I don’t think I ever will, but I’ll do whatever you ask of me, Mother. Whatever you say.” 

“I love you, ma choupette.” 

“I love you too, Maman.” 

Erik sat on the other side of the door, overcome with emotion at being called her son, someone’s son, someone’s family. His mask sat at his side, knees bent upward and hands cradling his face. 

Regret was a harsh surface, sandpaper scrubbing and peeling his heart as he desperately wished to change the past, to win back his Christine. He missed her something terrible, her angelic voice haunting his thoughts and plaguing his dreams. He’d done nothing to be deserving of Antoinette’s kindness, and yet she gave it freely. 

It touched him just as deeply as that little girl, unafraid, kissed the damaged side of his cheek, just because it looked like it hurt. 

His fingers prodded the kiss that had seared into him all of those years ago, and then to his lips, where another had happened just a few days before. His mind reeled to the hotel room, where Meg had been terrified of his bare face. That look rivaled her horror, he realized, when he had been violent with her. 

“Perhaps you’re right, my Christine,” he whispers, a tear trailing down his damaged cheek. “Perhaps it is in my soul.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He stayed in the smaller room for nearly the entire day, which Meg found she certainly didn’t mind. She was, however, beginning to miss her novel, so she asked Erik quietly if he could return it to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she saw the auburn copy passed beneath the door, and she waited a few seconds before snatching it into her hands and dashing away to her spot across the room. 

Meg read for the rest of the morning, eventually dozing off when her mother began to rub her back again. When she awoke next, she could barely remember a dream with something flowing red, maybe silk, and dancing on clocks at dusk, but it was becoming more and more vague as the seconds passed. 

“I’m going to fetch lunch for us,” she announces softly, and Meg nods, sitting up now and pulling the quilt tighter around her shoulders. 

Meg felt childish and immature for wanting - and needing. If she was being honest with herself - an abundance of comfort from her mother. She never sought it out unless she auditioned poorly or hadn’t gotten a role that crushed her. The last time that she’d cried this much, Meg surmised, was when Papa had left. But she shook away the thought of him, that dormant, age-old ache fighting to surface. 

She felt the urge to fight her mother again, but instead, remained quiet. As long as he stayed in the other room, and she, out there, she could live with the discomfort for a little while. Besides, she rather thought the room was accommodating enough for her to stretch. 

“Alright, Maman,” she agrees, a small and sad grin plastered on her mouth. 

“I won’t be too long,” she promises, and her heels clicked out of the room and down the hallway, same as before. 

Meg’s gaze slid across the room to the small bathroom in the corner, with a mirror above the sink, which Meg found swung open to reveal a medicine cabinet. 

Turning around, she moved the couch on the far wall to next to the bed, creating more of a rectangular free space. The table and chairs were next, to which she piled next to the couch. She opens the curtains, sub spilling into the room, illuminating Meg’s grin as she looks upon her work. Though her shoes were in the locked room, that didn’t matter - turning would be difficult regardless on the carpet. 

She placed her blanket on the couch, removed her overskirts and struggled with loosening her corset. After, she began to roll out her incredibly stiff neck, shoulders, wrists and ankles, and when she began to stretch her feet, the door unlocked and swung open. 

Meg’s arms crossed over her chest and she backed away in fear, but her gaze was stony and cold. He, however, seemed weather and exhausted, and the blonde wondered what had prompted him to leave the safety of his isolation, and why he seemed so . . . sad. 

Though she resented and feared him, a twinge of sympathy struck her. She felt the burning in her chest begin to extinguish itself. “Are you alright, monsieur?” 

He looked about the room, and the edge of his mouth that she could see twitched briefly into a grin. “I see you’ve redecorated.” 

If his verbal observation was meant to disarm her, it worked. He didn’t seem angry, which relieved her enough to uncross her arms and take a few steps toward him. “I needed somewhere to dance.” He doesn’t respond, and Meg decides not to mention how he seems unaffected by her state of undress. He also watched in during their ballet rehearsals, so perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. While that realization troubled her, she also appreciated that she didn’t have to wear the heavy and suffocating clothing in his presence now. “Why did you come out?” A beat, and then “Did you want to talk?”

“I think you’ll do enough of that for the both of us,” he snarls, and Meg’s mind whirls with frustration, and a burst of courage floods her. 

“I have done nothing to be deserving of your insults! You are the one who has ruined my life, Monsieur, and it angers me to no end that you feel as if you can treat me this way! I don’t expect us to become best friends, but I am deserving of respect, which I am willing to give in return, even though you’ve committed horrible sins.” She exhales sharply, squeezing her fists together and glancing away for a second, attempting to settle the waves of red rippling her vision. “I don’t like fighting, Monsieur. It’s not in my nature, and it drains me. I’m willing to put effort in, if you are as well.” 

He was quiet, and Meg watches his eyes, the emotion passing through him, thrown wide-open and vulnerable. She begins to notice that the half-mask was not the only mask he hid behind, and perhaps his eyes were the only honest trait about him. 

After a few seconds passed, Meg began to regret everything she said and wished she’d ignored him when he stepped into the room, but continued to hold his gaze. She could feel herself shrinking before his eyes softened, and she released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. 

“You’re right, Meg. I apologize. You aren’t deserving of my anger.” A shaky breath, and then, “You aren’t the one I’m angry at.” 

After the shock of his admission - and Meg thought that was rather brave of him, too, as he didn’t seem much of the talking-about-his-feelings type - she realized that he was projecting emotion onto her. It still wasn’t okay, but at least he recognized it. 

“I think you’re in a lot of pain, Monsieur,” Meg says softly, coming to stand closer. “And I think you’ve always been in a lot of pain. But us, fighting and hurling insults at each other won’t help. I can promise you that.” 

“Call me Erik, if I am to call you Meg,” he says, and light returns to Meg’s eyes. 

“Erik,” she says simply, and grins at him, ignoring the thoughts telling her to sprint out the door as quickly as she could. “So what did you think of Frankenstein?” 

And so began their dubious friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So are Meg and Erik finally beyond the fighting, and can move forward? Or will they still remain at odds? And do you think that Erik is finally exploring the possibility of change?   
> Also, thank you so much guys for your comments and kudos! They really keep me going and motivated :).


	5. chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as they crave to settle into a routine, some things need to be spoken about before Meg and Erik can be comfortable with each other. Madame Giry is awesome as always, but Meg still struggles with understanding her mother's wishes. AKA the Girys know what they're talking about and our emotional opera boy needs some loving and a hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I was so excited to see I gained a few more subs! All of your feedback and kudos means the word to me :). This chapter took longer to write than anticipated (I'm so sorry I kept you guys waiting for longer than usual!), but it was difficult keeping them in character while also showing them processing and progressing into a healthier relationship. But anyway, here's the next chapter! :)

The rest of the day was comfortably quiet for them, spent in a silence that Meg didn’t find frustrating. Maman has left, having met someone who was well-versed in America’s doings, and was anxious to know more of where they would possibly be spending the rest of their lives. Erik sat on the couch, scribbling in a notebook that her mother must have brought him, and Meg danced and read, enjoying the sun and eventually finding a way to pop the window open so she could feel its warmth. 

She was nearly done with her book as she lay in the sun’s rays, her eyes beginning to feel heavy, though she fights to stay awake until her mother returns. Once it became too dark to make out words, Meg sets the book aside, and looks behind her to glance at Erik, who was still scribbling and sketching, as though the sun hadn’t set and the sun wasn’t gone. Her gaze finds his fingers, wrapping around his pen, and a ring gleams brightly, black and glittering. 

“That’s a beautiful ring,” Meg observes, and his eyes find hers from her spot on the floor. “What kind of jewel is it?” 

“A black onyx,” he says, his finger brushing over the surface of it, and he looked, Meg thought, almost . . . heartbroken. She could barely see him, but his figure was illuminated with miniscule moonlight, and with a touch of horror, Meg found he really did appear as a phantom, even without the theatrical costumes. 

“Where did you get it from?” She asks, coming to stand and making her way towards him, nearly asking permission before carefully sitting beside him. He snatches the notebook away from her view, as if a reflex, but brings it back to sit in front of him. 

“It was a gift, many years ago,” he replies simply, and the panicked look relaxes from before. 

“How many?” She begins, and then a glaring, obvious question escapes her throat. “How old are you, Erik?”

He sets his pen down, and gives her a careful look, and Meg thinks she sees an air of questioning in his gaze, though she certainly doesn’t understand why. What matters of someone’s age? 

“I am eighteen years old,” she says, sliding her fingers together in a nervous tick. Perhaps offering her age, she thinks, will encourage him to share his own. “Though if for some reason you don’t want to tell me, that’s alright, too. I don’t want to force you to share anything you aren’t —“

“I am nearly 10 years your senior,” he says, sitting back on the couch now, his fingers folding into his lap, his fountain pen resting neatly on the closed, leather notebook. “However, I am certainly surprised to hear of how many years you are. I was under the impression you were older than,” a moment passes as he pauses, and then, “you know, her.” He emphasized the pronoun, and that same uncomfortable feeling from earlier clouded Meg’s chest, remembering just what this man was capable of. She took note of how even saying Christine’s name brought him pain. 

“Why is it surprising?” She questions, twisting herself to face him. “She looks older than me, and has certainly been called childish less times than I.” 

“When . . . When she spoke of you, it was as if you were her older sister. From what I could tell, you cared for her and comforted her more than perhaps Madame has,” he explains. “I naturally assumed you were older, as you seemed to take care of her.” 

“I do love her as a sister,” Meg says fiercely. “And I still do, and I will forever. You should know as well as I that she came with a heart full of grief, but filled to the brim with more natural talent than the opera had seen in some time. At least, that’s what Maman said.” She smiled to herself, remembering her dear friend. “She was so compassionate and kind, and I nearly hated Raoul for coming and whisking her away. She didn’t spend as much time with me, and her evenings were always spent with you, or so she said.” Meg’s gaze found the window, and a chill began to fill the room. “She spoke of you a lot, now that I’m able to piece the story together.” 

“She did?” He said quietly, almost so quietly she could barely catch it. 

“Always about her Angel of Music, though I thought it was dreams she’d had to keep her father alive. I suppose I should have realized that her vocal technique was learned and taught, and not completely natural. I wished I would have paid more attention to her at the beginning, when she spoke of her Angel.” 

“Why?” He says, his voice low, and Meg realized she should have shut her mouth long ago. “So she wouldn’t have wasted those years on me?” 

She turned back to him now, panic brewing in her chest. “I’m sorry - I shouldn’t have spoken so plainly.” She saw, now, that moisture had collected on the cheek she could see, and her eyes blew wide. He wasn’t doing anything to conceal them, but she rather thought mentioning them would only end in another explosion. 

“But you meant every word, and I know you wish that you could have spared her all of the pain that I’ve caused,” he says, and his words were born from heartbreak and rage. “I did hurt her. But I don’t regret any of it - and I will win her back.” 

Meg recoils, fingers curling into fists. “I won’t let you, Erik, and I did mean every word. What you did was wrong, and I can’t believe you don’t realize that!” She saw his lip twitch, and she seethed, “or perhaps you do, and you simply do not care!” 

“How can you say I don’t care!” He yells, now looming close to her. “Every decision I ever made led me to her.” Tears now coursed down his cheeks, and aside from terror and pity, she was shocked he was capable of such an  
emotional outburst. Maybe he felt more deeply than Meg gave him credit for. 

“Erik,” she begins, but he cuts her off. 

“I love her more than life itself,” he admits, and something twists in Meg’s chest at his admission. “I would die for her. I would kill for her.” His head lowers now, and his fingers twist the ring around his finger. “And more than all, I miss her.” His tone was soft and quiet, and Meg was stunned and silenced. 

“I know you do,” she said, her voice colored in a way as if she were speaking to a child. “I miss her too.” Meg reaches out to touch his shoulder in comfort, but he jerks away, briskly making his way to stand before the window. 

“I don’t want your pity, child,” he growls, his hands buried deep in his pockets. His ridiculously tall build blocked most of the window, but she could still make out the ghostly outline of him. 

“Don’t call me that,” she responds, bringing her knees up, to rest against her chest. 

She had half a mind to encourage him to open up again, so she could understand his choices, why he does things, just him, really. She can’t forgive him - could never, ever for what he’s done - but sadness and anger swirled in her stomach for whatever was done to him in the past, for whomever made this man believe he had to go to extreme lengths to be loved (if that was his reason). 

Instead, she gave him what little advice she didn’t think he wanted. “If you love her, Erik, you have to let her go. That’s all you can do for her, now.” 

He nearly splutters, though he doesn’t turn back, and Meg watches him wipe a palm against his cheek, and then under his mask. “In case you haven’t been present for the past couple of days, Meg, I certainly did let her go. I let her and that fool of a vicomte go.” He’d let her go, he remembers that very clearly! He loved her, and he let her leave with her precious Vicomte, he’d let her go . . . 

“No, Erik, you haven’t. You still carry her around, and until you let her go, she won’t ever be free, and neither will you.” 

He was quiet for a moment, and Meg feared the worst. It was rather insensitive, she knew, to tell him something so bold and so heartbreaking, but the words were out, and she didn’t think it would be wise to wish them back. 

It was a charged silence, and Meg could feel his emotions crackling like electricity around them, but she urged the panic to ebb away, and it did. He had tried to intimidate her earlier, but he didn’t touch her. She hoped her mother was accurate in her promise that Erik would never hurt her, because now was certainly the time in which he could. 

“Leave me alone,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “And do not argue with me, Miss Giry. You have crossed a line.” 

She did, she knew, no matter how right she was. She’d never have been so bold, if it were not Christine they were speaking of. 

She obeyed, saying nothing back, and scurrying to the smaller bedroom, closing the door quickly. Her breaths her labored now, and she pushed her hands into her knees, willing her breath and her heart to slow. 

She wasn’t angry at him, but she felt frustrated and confused. Would this be the only way they could ever talk? Through fighting? Meg wished she didn’t care, but her mother wanted her to make an effort. And deep down, the blonde ached for his pain, and wanted to help him in any she could. It was confusing to the point of wanting to rip her hair out from the roots, and find just where the answer was. 

After minutes of focusing her breathing and planning her words, Meg knew it was important to apologize, and would hopefully diverge into a lighter conversation, perhaps whatever he had planning in the notebook. She hoped it was something lighter, but he could be writing a memoir for all she knew. Though, it would certainly expand her understanding of him. 

As she was standing to seek his attention out once more, Meg heard Maman come through the doors, and she nearly melted in relief. There was a sharp intake in breath, however, and out of curiosity, Meg stayed, rooted where she was. 

“Erik,” her Maman greeted, though it was in a solemn way, like when she had told Meg that Papa was leaving for Italy. 

Meg couldn’t hear much else, but she did hear a frustrated, masculine growl and the crumpled of parchment, balled and thrown at the wall. 

“We’ll figure it out,” she hears Maman promise, and then a low, shuddering sigh from Erik. 

It was quiet, after that, but she thought she heard sniffling and mumbling, and Meg rather thought the whole scene felt very familiar, like an old memory she couldn’t grasp. 

“You have to let her go, Erik,” she hears her Maman say, finally being able to make out words being passed between them. 

“You Girys,” he murmurs in what she assumed was humor, but it came out broken and bruised. Another shuddering sigh. 

“I see Meg has gotten to you,” she hears Maman chuckle. “If we’re both saying the same thing, then maybe, it’s right.” 

“I can’t let her go, Antoinette,” it was a whisper, so low and quiet that Meg had to strain to her it, but guilt racked her suddenly and she leaned away, sliding down the door, cradling her knees to her chest. 

Maman trusted this man as his son, which she’d known (because Maman had told her as much), but she hadn’t thought of the implications with that. How long had Maman known him? Had she been taking care of him for long? And if so, why hadn’t she ever met him?

And then, the most glaring issue of them all, why hadn’t Maman intervened when he’d stepped into Christine’s life, if she’d known about him all this time?

She felt confusion and frustration heighten, and she buried her face into her palms. But more than anything, she felt awful for the masked man. If not a grievance, she wanted to help him, therefore helping her dear friend. And,maybe, aiding him in seeking peace in return. Perhaps Maman was right - maybe all he needed was a change of lifestyle. 

Meg had been called naive and childish all her life for believing in magic and ghosts and stories, but she hoped that she wasn’t naive in thinking that he could become a better man. Can a murderer be redeemed? Perhaps this one could, she hoped, cradling her hands together. She felt greatly affected by her mother’s acts of kindness toward him, and she began to believe every good thing Madame said about him. 

Though she remained at odds with the thought of him, there was a glimmer of hope in her chest. She slept with Frankenstein under her pillow, visions of stars and clocks and a fiery, silken red flooding her vision. She danced with mismatched eyes, and floated amongst the sky. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meg awakened the next morning to Maman silently opening her door, miniscule light being filtered into her room. The blonde’s eyes slowly flickered open and sought out her mother’s dark shape. “Bonne matinee, Maman,” she greets, her voice hoarse and scratchy from sleep. 

“Good morning, ma amour,” she replies, sitting next to Meg’s cocooned body on the bed. “I’ve brought breakfast. They were serving your favorite - croissants with strawberries and honey. I’ve extra honey, of course,” Maman grins, and Meg slowly rights herself, now sitting next to her mother. 

“They’ll still be in America, right, Maman? I don’t think I could live without them,” the petite blonde jokes, and Madame laughs. 

“I’d suppose they are, you silly thing. Now come, let’s eat.” Before they pull off, however, Meg’s hands shoot out to clasp one of her mother’s between her own. 

“Maman, I . . . I feel very lost, when it comes to Erik,” she admits, her gaze sliding away and down to the blankets. “I want to be kind, and I want to understand, but he makes it difficult. And it’s difficult to overlook much of who he is . . . I’ve never met anyone like him, Maman.” 

Madame gently uncurls a hand from Meg’s small and pale fingers and brushes lazy, golden strands from her cheeks. “It’s alright, Meggie. You’ve done nothing wrong - he’s the one that must adjust, as you have been trying. I’m praying he’ll learn to move on and overcome who he was.” 

“How did you forgive him, Maman?” Meg questions, longing and something deep and empty swirling in her chest. “I don’t think I can. Not even for Christine.”

“Nor should you. But you can choose to be kind to him anyway, and though he’s done wrong, understand that life has not shown him an ounce of compassion, no matter whether I was there or not. There’s light in him, little one, I promise, and a warm heart. Somewhere in him, there is a man, and a scared little boy.” Her words sunk into Meg, deep and penetrating and it burned like fire. She wanted to believe all of it - trust her mother, believe her mother, like she always had - but it was hard. He was a difficult man - for however many days she’d known him - and proved to not take well to kindness, anyway. Had it affected him more than Meg had seen? 

“Now, to breakfast, Meggie, or I fear your stomach will wake the entire ship,” Maman chuckles, and leads Meg out to the main room, Erik already feasting on pastries and honey. 

Meg and Maman sit across from the masked man, and though he doesn’t look up at her right away, he does share a quick glance, and she gives him a small smile. A look of confusion blemishes his gaze before returning to his task of pouring an unholy amount of honey on his croissants. Meg, pleased with what little reaction she receives, reaches across the table for a croissant, and pours honey across the warm bread. She then picks a few raspberries and blueberries to garnish her meal, and Maman pours Meg a tall cup of coffee. 

The meal was silent - as seemed to be common among them - but was not unwelcome, at least, Meg found it that way. She didn’t know the first thing to say, as it was easier to talk to Erik when Maman wasn’t around, and vice versa.

After another croissant layered with honey and berries for Meg - and another three for Erik - the dishes were placed outside of the room, and their daily activities fell in schedule, resuming as if nothing had happened between the two of them. The daily click-clacking of Maman’s shoes fled down the hall, and Meg centered her courage again, now feeding her curiosity. 

“What’s in the notebook?” She questions, her gaze cast away from him and instead toward the streaking, rising sun, bright and golden and warm. Meg inhaled deeply, the salty sea air weaving through her lungs. Why exhale, when the whole world is in your blood? 

She heard the scratch of his pen stutter, and then a familiar, dark presence coming behind her. She glanced to her left, and there he was, towering and lethal and gentle. “I always wonder why you stare out of the window, as if you must memorize each line and shape and commit it all to memory.” 

Meg openly gaped, now turning to him. “Am I that transparent?” 

“Very much, my dear,” he replies, and he hands the notebook to her, a thumb between the bookmarked pages. “Your mother spoke of the culture in America - how very different it is from Parisian lifestyle. Everything down to the music is flipped, and I rather thought of being irony’s fool, for the rest of my life.” 

“What do you mean, Erik?” She questions, now drawing cautiously close to him, and taking the leather-bound pages from his hands. Their fingers brushed, but neither of them mentioned it. 

“Does it matter?” He snips, but Meg ignores it, unabashed in her curiosity and knowing of his projection mechanisms. She delicately opens the pages he had marked, and finds small sketches performers - a lead in the middle, she noted - wearing strange and flamboyant costumes. Meg thought that if they had been more than just black ink, they would be bright and flashy, as seemed to be New York. There was a large half mask across the top of the stage the dancers were drawn upon, small balls of light decorating the front of the stage, and a large banner, intricate and detailed, and had “Phantasma: City of Wonder” written across it. On the outsides, there were strange contraptions, twisting and turning and, well, wonderful. 

“What is all of this?” She asks, her eyebrows scrunched as she brings it closer to her, fingertips running across the page. “It’s almost like . . . it’s almost like a - “

“Circus, yes, though without torture,” he replies, and before he lets her continue, a look on her face of obvious questioning, he says, “and a place where we can be alone . . . where I can be alone, and finish my work.” 

“Your work? But what else . . . “ a glare her way, and she decides to drop the subject. “So who will be performing? Will it be like the opera house, with the corps de ballet and the prima donna?” 

“Similar, Meg, but I rather wonder who my rivals will be, though I can’t imagine who could possibly compose music better than I,” he states, and Meg giggles. 

“Humble, I see,” she comments, and his fingers seem to itch in a reach, and Meg hands the journal back to him. 

“One of my defining traits, I’m afraid. Now, aren’t you going to ask me what your role in all of this will be?” He asks, and Meg clasps her hands in front of her, and turns away, back toward the sunrise. Her mind reels back to Il Muto and Don Juan Triumphant, in which both she had held esteemed roles. That led her to assume an air of questioning, and she turned back to him, now closer to his side. 

“What do you intend to do with me? I am certainly no singer, nor fine actress.” 

“Despite my earlier comments, your acting is fine. And as for your voice, though I have not heard the fully heard what you are currently capable of, you can hold a tune. I’d like to hear it, though, quickly,” he says. 

“You’ll have to wait until we find a piano then in New York, Erik,” Meg says. “There’s certainly no piano in this room - I would have ran into it by now.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” he begins. “Never once have I seen a ship without a piano in the main room. We shall do it there.” 

She finds herself slack-jawed with him again. “There’s . . . we . . . Erik, have you lost your mind? There’s - “

“People, yes,” he finishes for her. “Exactly why we should go at night. No one will detect a thing, and we’ll be quiet as mice. I firmly doubt anyone will hear our music either.” 

Oh, did Meg Giry want to say yes. She was nervous to sing before a musical genius, but excited, as she’d always dreamed of becoming the prima donna. Or . . . whatever it would be in America. But she knew it wasn’t a good idea. She trusted her Maman, and knew she was wiser than them both. 

“Erik, Maman said - “

“Meg, I’ve created a career based around staying hidden, being physically quiet, escaping trouble, and generally being the upper hand in forcing many things to go my way. I promise, no one will know we were there,” he says seriously, and Meg feels her resolve wavering, as well as guilt curling in her stomach for considering this, though she knew she would most likely say yes, much to her distaste. 

“And mother?” She asks, folding her arms. “She is wound up tighter than a violin string near snapping, and sleeps lighter than when Papa told me ghost stories. We will never get past her.” 

“You think so?” He says, and Meg huffs, turning on him. “Yes, I think so -“

She stops, now finding him across the room, sprawled on the couch, and reading her copy of Frankenstein. 

“You . . . “ her mind scrambles, attempting to piece together the puzzle laid before her. “How? Did you throw your voice?” 

“Yes, and, not to mention, did you hear my steps?” No response from her, which gave him an invitation to continue. “Therefore, we will not wake her up.” 

“And the door? It clicks when it closes,” she says, now coming to sit beside him on the couch. 

“Very slowly,” he explains, “and very quietly. Meg, honestly, I can just as well find someone else, if you aren’t up for it.” 

“Now, wait,” she begins, leaning back against the couch, sinking into the cushions there. “Let me reconsider.” After a few seconds, she laughs, closing her arms. “Do you honestly expect me to deny your request?”

“I’m not sure what to expect from you, my dear,” he says, reopening the journal and seeking out his pen. 

“Then it’s a date,” she says, though blushes after, sinking a little further. If he notices, he says nothing. 

“There was a dancer in the middle. Is she the Prima Donna?” Meg questions. 

“No,” he replies. “She’s an Empress.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The rest of the day was spent normally, in a serene silence, as Meg read and stretched and danced and slept, and Erik stayed focused on his plans for the rest of the day. Meg began to have the suspicion that it wasn’t just plans he was working on, but didn’t want to invade his privacy, so she didn’t ask again. 

After dinner that night, and she left to ready herself for bed, she closed her eyes as mother checked on her to wish her goodnight before turning over to her shoulder, the small cabin window barely allowing moonlight into the tiny room, and Meg became lost in her thoughts, much of Paris and Christine and the masked man she was friendly with, the Phantom of the Opera . . . 

Without much time, she had accidentally slipped into sleep. She was once again beneath the opera house in Paris, but with a red cord wrapped about her neck, and horrid words snarled into her ear. She was woken up soon after that, shaking as she looked into the man looming above her, and she nearly screamed from the fright of her dream, if not for the hand being wrapped around her lips. 

“Meg Giry, I know my face isn’t the most beautiful thing to awake to, but consider it a blessing that at least my mask is on. Now, be quiet. Your mother is finally asleep,” he whispers, and she shoves his hand away, the ring once again burning a cool brand against her cheek. The dancer slides her slippers on, and follows him quietly out the door, long, cold fingers gently coiled round her elbow. She looked over to her mother, who was rolled over in the bed, an arm thrown over her forehead and blankets scrunched around her. She looked decently asleep - the poor woman must be exhausted - and rather serene, which Meg couldn’t help but grin at. There was then a tug on her elbow, and Meg flew forward, landing into his side, and sending a glare up his way. He ignores her, leading her out of the door, and slowly shutting it behind him. 

A sort of giddiness filled Meg, along with guilt, that came along with sneaking out - and with a man, no doubt! He sent a curious look down to her in the dark, and murmured, “You’ve truly never snuck out?” 

“I’ve snuck out and gotten snacks and stayed awake with my friends until after curfew, but nothing to this extent,” she whispers back, a wide grin on her face. 

No response from him, but as they went down the dark hallway, Meg found that she could no longer see as the moonlight faded, and her arm reached out, grasping his wrist. Though he seemed to freeze and stiffen, he allowed her, if nothing but for her to make her way through the dark. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised that you can see in the dark,” Meg murmurs, and he does nothing more than shush her, and she rolls her eyes in return. 

They slowly crept down the stairs, much to Meg’s fear, and her hand slid down to his, and clasped tightly. 

“Meg, what on earth are you doing?” He says, attempting to draw his hand back, but Meg holds tight, her grip boldening on his. 

“Erik, I can’t see, and we’re going down the stairs! Unless you expect me to fall, help me!” She whispers harshly at him, and he grumbles, curling his hand back around her and pulling Meg closer to his side. In the pitch black, Meg couldn’t see more than the porcelain on his face, the gleam of his ring, and the sound of both of their breaths, now hyper-aware of every movement and noise. 

“I believe, it’s just right over there, oh! What luck!” He exclaims, leading Meg toward somewhere to her right, and she recognized a door being pushed open, to which they both went through, and then the bright night sky and the chilly air meeting her bare arms. The door closed behind them, and all was quiet and lonely, except for them. 

“Come, Meg, let’s warm you up,” he gestures, beckoning her toward the piano where he pulls the bench out and sits, and Meg runs her hands up and down her arms, standing before him. She sincerely hoped he meant her skin, though she knew he was referring to her voice. 

“Come, now, you surely can’t expect me to believe you sing with that posture,” he criticizes, and she shrugs, shivering. “Why didn’t you grab a robe or a coverling?” 

“I didn’t expect to be whisked away somewhere outside, Erik! And I was a little preoccupied with sneaking out of our room to be worried about such a thing,” she replies, and he grumbles, Meg catching a few curses under his breath and he sheds his cloak, standing to swaddle her shoulders, wrapping her in it. Her shaking fingers come up to the clasp of the top, and Meg wonders what her friends would all think, seeing her wear the Phantom’s cloak. A stab of betrayal hits her, for her dear friend Christine, only imagining the look on her face. 

“Now, we begin. A simple scale on the vowel ‘Ah’”.” His thin fingers begin to crawl over the keys as he draws her voice lower, and then higher and higher and higher, climbing until she cracks on a D, above Top C. 

“Very good, Meg. Just as I thought before, you have a beautiful soprano, with a gorgeous color. Though, your breathing needs work, and despite your potential, you’ll need technical practice over natural talent, which you are lacking in,” he responds, gazing up at her, and Meg once again blushes, turning toward the ocean. 

“I’m not sure whether to take it as a compliment or not, Erik,” she replies honestly, fighting the blush away. 

“It’s critique, my dear, which I will be honest and brutal with.”

Something ignites in her, and she grins a wide, toothy smile toward him. “Will you teach me? To sing?” 

“Only if you promise to aid me in finding a chorus, whom I will need your opinion on their dancing technique. I, unfortunately, have no knowledge of ballet, or whatever sort of dance they have in America, and will need your opinion. And your mother’s, of course.”

“Yes!” She replies excitedly, though she credits much of her joy to the fact she’s receiving free opera lessons. “Do I need to sing anything else?” 

He shakes his head. “I think not. It’s rather chilly, which isn’t good for the voice, and I’d rather we begin our lessons in a setting that will become familiar to you, possibly with a mirror.” 

“Alright,” she agrees, stepping out toward the railing, sitting on the floor and gazing up at the stars. She eventually closes her eyes, curling into the cloak, which smelled of mint and soap and something sharp, and is lulled into a state of numbness when his fingers begin to delicately press against the keys. They stay like that, in silence, and for the first time during this entire endeavor, Meg feels completely safe with him. Though, the thought does occur to her that her mother may notice their new shift in dynamic, but it doesn’t matter. Wasn’t it good that they were slowly becoming friendlier? Perhaps even friends, she wondered. 

She hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped playing until her name was on his lips. “Hmm?” She replies, though she doesn’t open her eyes, wishing to remain in this safe, calm place. 

“I’m sorry for the argument we had yesterday. I assumed something out of your words, and threw your feelings out of the context. I . . . I recognize that this is not where you wish to be, and I thank you that you continue to treat me with kindness, though I am undeserving and do not return the favor.” His voice was soft and sincere, and Meg felt awareness strike her, and she rolled up onto her elbows slowly. 

“But you have, Erik. You’ve offered to teach me to sing, you’ve given me a large part in your plans. And I sincerely believe that you are trying to be civil, though I know you must be feeling terribly heartbroken,” she replies, and his gaze remains on the piano. Her eyes find his hands, and her head tilts, pondering how those fingers could create such beautiful music, but be capable of bringing destruction and death and evil. 

She laid back down after a while, and he continued his music, though it became more mournful and broken, and tears formed in her eyes from the sheer agony of it. He eventually beckoned her to him, and took her hand in his, and led her back up the stairs and toward their room. He carefully opened Meg’s door, and she looked back at him, grabbing his arm before he could close the door. “Thank you for taking me outside, tonight. It felt like ages before I got to see them again.” 

A small, fleeting grin, and then, “Goodnight, Meg,” and he slowly closed the door, until she heard the barely noticeable click of it. 

She kicked her slippers off and sunk into the bed, feeling warm and tired and maybe a little confused. She fell asleep quickly, and her last conscious thought was of the black cloak she was still swaddled in, and what she was going to tell her mother in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this got kind of long! I'm so sorry for the last update, but I hope the extra long chapter makes up for it! The dynamic between Meg and Erik seems to be ever shifting, and though he is realizing he needs to let Christine go, it will be hard for him. Will kindness inspire change in him? Will love? 
> 
> Thank you so much guys for reading! Next chapter will be up in a few days! I have an online exam coming up next week, so if one of the upcoming chapters is a little late, that's why! I love you guys :).


	6. chapter six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are half-way through our cruise from London to New York City, and the drama has barely begun! Meg's recurring nightmare is slowly becoming more intense, and she begins to wonder if she has met the phantom before. Madame Giry stumbles upon disturbing news that begins to derail their plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is safe and healthy! Here is chapter six :). chapter seven is already in the works, and i'm really looking forward to posting it!

It was the same dream again, waltzing on the ticking arms of a clock, though they were at standstill, in the arms of her Papa. She was dressed in red silk, smooth against her skin and complimentary to her coloring, a stark, beautiful contrast against her overall paleness. When Maman came, as she always did, Papa went to dance with her, and she was spun into the arms of the man clad in black, porcelain covering half of his face, cunning and feline, though playful when tapered fingers wrapped around her own. Meg felt the wind begin to whip around her, no longer silent and cool in the warm moonlight, and the stars began to disappear, fading to black. Though what was different, this time, was that the man’s arms wrapped about her, but when she turned roughly against his hold, her parents were gone, somewhere where the stars had been. A beige hand turns her face back toward him, and she expects to find as confused and she is, but instead, his face features - from what she could see - were calm, thought pasty and bloodless, as if he’d seen a ghost. The wind was stronger, and she heard a scream, and lunged toward the edge of the clock, looking down at the city she now recognized as London below. Meg leaps off without a thought, a sob stuck in her throat to find her parents, and the man follows behind her, his cape whipped around them both. But before she hits the bottom, she awakens, gasping and reaching out, fisting the blankets about her. 

Maman was beside her in worry, hurrying toward the blonde and dropping on the mattress. “It’s alright, Meg. You’re awake now.” The older woman smoothed the younger one’s hair from her forehead, sticking and sliding uncomfortably from the sweat that had built up, but her Maman didn’t mind. 

“It was the same dream again,” Meg whispers, sitting up and clutching her Maman’s hand. 

“What dream, Meggie?” Madame replies, gently taking Meg’s hands in hers. 

“I . . . I have this dream . . . nightmare, now, where I’m dancing on a clock with Papa,” Meg begins. “And then you would come and dance with him, and I would waltz with another man, though he always wore a mask and I never knew who he was until, well, the first time I met him.” Her voice was low now, but she suspected that if he could see in the dark, he could hear her softened voice. “And it always ended there. But now . . . you and Papa disappear, and I jump off the clock to find you, and he follows me, and we plummet toward the streets.” She took a shaky breath, her voice still sore and groggy from sleep, but she continues on. “But right before we hit the bottom, I wake up.” 

“I’m sure you just miss Papa, Meg, and I know how frightening and difficult the past week has been,” Maman rationalizes, and the ballerina agrees, but still can’t help but wonder why she was dreaming of Erik long before she’d met him. Hadn’t Buquet told stories of him? But what she remembered from his gruesome story wasn’t the image of the man in the other room. And certainly not the one in her head as she slept. 

“Perhaps some breakfast will do you good. You should hurry, though, otherwise Erik will eat every last croissant. His appetite seems to rival yours,” she jokes, but the comment was off-putting to Meg, since the confusion of his identification of him in his dream. She suddenly remembers that she had fallen asleep with Erik’s cloak, but didn’t find it wrapped around her. Maman gave a strange look at her sudden panic, but Meg recovered, not wanting to alert her mother to anything. From her surprise, she supposed, her mother hadn’t been the one to remove the black clothing. That left Erik, and it unnerved her that he had been in her room while she was sleeping, removing his cloak from her body. A small part of her was thrilled, which she immediately squashed. Did she really have to tell someone not to come into her room while she was sleeping? 

Meg followed her mother out of her bedroom and into the main room, Erik looking impeccable as ever, though the blonde noticed he seemed to appear this way constantly. He was seated proudly at the table, having already eaten many of the croissants, though Maman chastised him, which fell upon mute ears. 

Meg slid on to her normal seat - beside Maman, across from Erik - and carefully grabbed a croissant, avoiding brushing her fingers with his as they passed close by each other. They ate in silence, as per usual, and Meg felt a little silly, knowing they’d snuck out the night before. She felt like Christine, when she’d sneak out of the dormitories to meet Raoul, and Meg would cover for the lovers so her friend wouldn’t be punished. She’d always tried to keep her jealousy at bay toward her friend, but comparisons were always thoughts in the back of her mind. How Meg wished for a romance like Christine’s! To be of such talent and virtue and love! 

She remembers the night of Christine’s debut and disappearance, when she’d been singing her aria, and enchanted the audience, those backstage and all who could hear. She’d been thrilled and excited for her friend, but also felt distraught and upset that it hadn’t been herself out there. She knew her voice was nothing - and probably would never reach - Christine’s level, but she dreamed of being the Prima Donna, just as Christine had. But nonetheless, Meg knew how jealousy could tear relationships apart in the opera, and she despaired to think of her and Christine cutting ties. Though, she supposes, it doesn’t so much matter now, as she will probably never see her dear friend again. 

Meg inhales deeply, silencing her thoughts, and begins to pour honey and place fruits on her meal. She avoids looking at Erik, though she feels his gaze from across the table. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees his cloak carefully draped about his shoulders. 

Maman begins to speak more of American politics and music, and Erik speaks up, expressing his disinterest in their style of music. He asked the eldest Giry to sing some of the style, but she refused. Shortly after, Maman leaves the two behind, and Erik immediately draws out his notebook, scratching out his new ideas and developing more. 

Meg drew the curtains open, and was disappointed to find the weather dreary and gray. It was chilly, and the wind blew harshly through the cabin room, and Erik gave her a dark look as the whipping air found purchase around the pages he was working on. She closes the curtains, though it was still cold, and the room was dark and suffocating. The blonde sighs, plopping onto the couch. She closes her eyes to attempt to nap, but the question she’d been wanting to ask pried at her tongue. 

“Did you come into my room last night?” She asked him, and he looked back her, a strange look in his eyes. 

“Was I just supposed to let Madame Giry find you sleeping in my cloak?” He questions, as if the question was silly and unprecedented. “The last thing you need, my dear, and your mother thinking I’ve compromised your innocence. She would kill me, I believe, and you’d be married off the second you arrived in America.” 

“She trusts me, Erik,” Meg begins, explaining her feelings. “And though it was the smart thing to do, it still makes me uncomfortable. It’s rare I’m in the company of a man, much less a strange one who wears a mask and I’m living with and within several feet at all times.” 

“I apologize, Meg, but what would you have had me do instead?” He questions, though there was an annoyed glint in his mismatched gaze. She sensed a hint of sarcasm, which Meg certainly didn’t appreciate. However, she let it go, not wanting to add to the conflict. Also, in truth, she didn’t know, and it was her fault that she hadn’t returned it to him, or hidden in before she’d fallen asleep. 

“I don’t know, Erik. I’m only telling you how I feel, and that I felt uncomfortable,” she replies, wringing her fingers together as she lay upon her left shoulder. 

He doesn’t reply and turns back to his notebook, and though she was annoyed by his silence, she was glad that he acknowledged her discomfort. 

“Any new ideas?” She asks, coming to stand and glancing over his shoulder. Looking over, there was a beautiful face with long spirals down here shoulders, plump lips, and narrow shoulders; a perfect portrait of a woman. She knew, after a second, that this was a drawing of Christine, and it unnerved her how perfectly he’d drawn her from memory. 

“You speak of privacy, Meg, and then invade mine,” he snarls, snapping the notebook closed and turning, to glare at her. 

Her eyes had blown wide, but she recovered, stepping back a few times before regaining a calm exterior. “I’m sorry . . . I’ll ask next time.”

“Or, just don’t ask,” he repeats, his voice monotone as he picks up his belongings and goes to the table, finding a more isolated place to draw. 

As Meg stepped forward to apologize, and maybe discover more of his plans, there were three knocks on the door, and then a woman’s voice, “room service!” 

Meg and Erik looked is a panicked manner at each other, both eyes wide with fear and confusion. 

“I thought Maman requested for no room service?” Meg mouths, and he shakes his head, glancing toward the door. 

She grabs his forearm, and he quickly follows her lead. “Don’t make a sound,” she whispers, and he closes the door. Meg scampers toward the door, and breathes deeply a few times, attempting to right herself. She prayed her face wasn’t bright red. The blonde smoothes the front of her dress down, and realizes with a shock that she’s still in her nightgown. Quickly throwing a blanket over her shoulders, she hurried back to the door, and turns the handle to allow it to open. 

Behind the door stood a tall woman, dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform. She was nearly the same height as Meg, maybe a little taller, and had bright red hair that was pulled back into a low bun, and freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. She was lean and had a similar build to Christine, unlike Meg, who was curvier, though strong and agile. 

“Good Morning!” Meg greets, sending a grin toward the woman and curling her fingers together by her waist. “I believe my mother requested that we wouldn’t be needing any room service. But thank you for stopping by!”

The woman nods, and Meg was taken aback by how differently her poise was compared to other maids she had met at the opera house. They always seemed old and worn, but she was young and vivid, and made Meg wonder how she was pleased with her job. Perhaps that was something of these people - pride in their work, regardless of what it was. It reminded her of her Maman, who held great esteem for her position, and Papa, who traveled around the world to enrich others of his knowledge. “I understand that, Miss, but we are required to clean every guest’s cabins at least once during our cruise. Just to make sure everything is up to par and everyone is safe.” She smiles back, and beyond everything, Meg was most intrigued by her accented French. It was coarse and plain, and not at all the way her language sounded. 

“You aren’t a native French speaker?” Meg asks, allowing her into the room, along with a large tin full of cleaning supplies and a laundry bin. She saw a stack of bleached white towels folded neatly by the bottom. She wasn’t sure whether to close the door behind the red-headed female or not, so instead left it open and came by the couch. 

“No, I’m afraid not. I began learning a few years back as I planned to transfer to Paris for my education, but I’ve been struggling to pull together funds. I work here during our holidays, and then return to my university,” she says, though a warm blush spreads across her cheeks after her admission, as if she felt she’d spoken too much. 

“You attend a university?” Meg questions, her eyes lighting up with wonder. “What do you study?” 

“Psychology. I attend the university in New York City,” she says. “It’s fascinating, and I love the city. But I suppose you know of city life. Are you from Paris?” 

“I am!” Meg replies, helping the woman strip the bed. “I’m in the corps de ballet of an opera house.” She gathers in the white sheets into her arms and sets them inside of the laundry bag. 

“A ballerina!” She replies, a rosy grin crossing her features. “It must be wonderful, performing. I’ve always wanted to, but I couldn’t dance beyond childhood. And my mother invested nearly all of our savings toward my education. There wasn’t left any to spare for dancing.” 

“It must be wonderful to learn so much!” Meg exclaims. They rounded the corners, now pulling the new sheets onto the bed. She attempted to argue with Meg, telling her that she could clean the room, as she was a guest, but Meg wouldn’t have any of it. “And I’m sorry you aren’t able to dance anymore. But what you’re doing instead - how peculiar! I’ve never heard of a woman studying science!” 

“Exactly,” she replies. “It’s about time science needed a woman’s touch. Especially with psychology . . . there’s so many other views and theories, and I have many ideas of improvements and experiments . . . and if I be the one to pave the way for other women, then so be it.” 

Meg was shocked into silence, and a powerful emotion of importance washed over her. This woman was right . . . it was about time women were risen to their rightful level. And though the thought of education intrigued Meg, she wouldn’t give up performing for the world. She also supposed Maman wouldn’t be thrilled of her going to universities and learning of science and art and philosophy. 

“Can I open this door?” The woman asks, and Meg’s eyes grow wide as she rushes forward. 

“No!” Meg yelped, and the red-head backed away, alarmed at her reaction. Meg gathered her bearings before continuing. “My husband . . . he’s asleep, and I don’t believe he’s decent.” 

“Ah,” she replies, and casts a glance at Meg’s attire. “I understand.” 

Meg pulls the blanket further around her shoulders and feels her chest and face grow hot. She ducks her eyes away, and the woman giggles. The blonde considered defending her honor and saying they had done nothing of the sort, but this was the role she was meant to play. 

“I’m Felicity,” she says, extending a hand out. “But my friends call me Fleck.” 

Meg takes her hand, and gives it a warm, gentle shake. “I”m Marguerite, but nearly everyone calls me Meg.” 

“Meg,” Felicity says, trying the name in her mouth. “I’d rather like to come back tomorrow, if that’s alright.” 

Meg nods, something bubbly and exciting in her chest. “Yes, of course!” 

They moved onto the bathroom next, and chatted about America, Paris, and politics. Meg, throughout the cleaning, hoped that Fleck was a sign that she wouldn’t be alone, and she would find her success in America. That perhaps, there was a future awaiting her. She grinned, at that. 

Meg and Erik didn’t talk much for the rest of the day, though he did poke fun at her embarrassment when she attempted to keep Fleck out of the smaller room. She had blushed again and giggled cautiously, but he left well enough alone after that. She eventually fell asleep, but didn’t catch the curious eyes that gazed at her from across the room, as if attempting to solve an impossible puzzle he couldn’t understand. “I don’t think I’ll ever fathom your level of kindness and attempts to forgive me, Meg” he whispered, more so to the air, which fell upon tired ears. He delicately traced Christine’s outline, about her face, her eyes, and finally, her lips. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Madame Giry sat among other couples, both aged as she, and politely conversed with them. Most were English, and though hers was rough and accented, they understood her just fine. Many were curious as to know her role in Paris, to which she replied vaguely about, something being a ballet instructor at an esteemed opera house, though she and her daughter left France to seek the success those seemed to find in America. 

“Ah, so you must have known of The Phantom of the Opera!” A man with wire-rimmed glasses exclaimed, and his wife sitting beside him bristled with excitement. 

“Yes, Madame, do you know anything of him? We’ve all been in such mystery . . . do you know who he was? Do you know of Christine Daae?” She questions, settling her glass back onto the table. Before she could respond, however, another woman piped in. 

“Perhaps he really is a phantom! Did they ever discover his identity?” She questioned, and suddenly, many, many eyes were on her. She didn’t lose her composure, however, and instead explained exactly as much as the public knew. 

“He was, indeed, a man, though no one quite knows who. No one has heard from him since, so he must have perished in the fire,” she lies, though she felt no guilt. 

“But couldn’t he have gotten away?” A plump man asks, raising his glass to his equally plump lips. An unflattering moustache curled around his upper lip, and a thick band wrapped around his index finger. 

“I think he did!” The same woman from before blurts out, waving a waiter over to refill her cup. “Someone as smart as him, to be living there as long as he did, I don’t imagine him dying in a fire.” Many others agree with her statement, voicing their own theories. 

“That may be true, but after him being exposed to the public, I should think that he wouldn’t show his face again. If he is as smart as you say, then I suspect he fled somewhere far, far away,” she cautiously responds, attempting to keep her wits about her. She worried that her words weren’t careful enough, but she was an intelligent, reasonable woman, and not one to encourage fantasies. It was not beyond her that others viewed her in this light as well. 

“Like the North Pole?” Someone jokes, and there was polite laughter about the table. 

“Perhaps he isn’t a man! Maybe he’s Frankenstein, and followed his master there!” 

“Or maybe he’s a demon, sent from hell to claim a bride!” 

Frustration rose in Madame Giry at the seemingly harmless jokes, though she was thankful Erik wasn’t here. She feared that not everyone would make it off the ship if he overheard any of the comments made at his suspense, but knew that Meg wouldn’t let him leave the room. She quelled her fears, but wished for a path to escape the room.

She glanced about the lounging room, many gathered in circles on chairs and couches around tables, sipping fine wines and tea. Their own was slowly filling up, many wanting to know more of the Phantom and where he was. She stayed quiet, though laughed when others did. She stared out upon the gray waters, the waves higher and harsher, yet those inside the ship could barely feel the hits. She remained unseeing and unseen, melting into the background, though she noticeably flinched when someone mentioned that perhaps he was on the ship as well. The couple sitting next to her turned toward the Madame, worry etched in the wife’s face, and placed a hand on her upper arm. 

“Are you alright?” She questions, bringing a glass of water toward her.

“Quite fine, my dear, though I am feeling a little seasick. I think I’ll lay down and return after lunch?” She replies, as the woman nods, returning the glass back to the table. The former prima ballerina politely excused herself and made her way back to their room, panic and paranoia in her steps the farther away she became from the group. 

A man dressed in red sat in the corner of the large room, having picked her out immediately. An eyebrow was arched from her information regarding the Phantom, and lips puckered from her refusal to encourage the insults. His eyes followed her out, watching her turn from the door, down a shot of alcohol, and make her way toward wherever her room may be. 

He slowly rose to his feet, and quietly followed behind her, staying many feet back, and memorized the room number she entered. A smirk curled about his mouth as he quickly made his way back to his own cabin, and hurriedly wrote the numbers onto a scrap of paper. He unsheathed a fresh parchment, readied his pen, and scribbled a letter. 

To Whom It May Concern,  
This Madame Giry knows something. Enclosed, her cabin number. I suspect more exists than her daughter and her daughter’s supposed husband, whom neither seem to ever make  
an appearance.  
\- Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps their plan to give Erik a second chance won't be as seamless as they thought . . . 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let me know your thoughts :). I'm interested to know what you all are thinking! 
> 
> Also, we didn't get a lot of Erik in this chapter, but I promise, he'll make more of an appearance in the next chapter! :)


	7. chapter seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madame Giry shares some news with Erik after returning, and soon leaves the odd couple alone again. After little conversation, something happens that frightens the two . . . especially Meg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, afternoon or evening or whenever it is when this chapter reaches you! Thank you so much for sticking with me :). You guys make my day every time I wake up to comments and kudos! I hope you enjoy this chapter :). (This chapter was beta-ed by the wonderful WinglessOne, who writes incredible stories, especially for those of us who enjoy Reylo!)

Meg’s breath caught in her throat as her mother spoke in hushed tones to Erik, warning him of the quickly spreading rumors and news. She could tell Maman was holding back, perhaps to quench Erik’s wrath at what they had been saying about him. To be fair, Meg thought, most of what everyone had been saying was probably true, though she’d seen uncharacteristic softness and gentleness in him that was incredibly alluring. It made Meg’s chest warm, when he was calm and gentle. Maybe this was the Angel of Music persona Christine had spoken of, though Meg hoped this was just Erik, and not anything he created. 

“Did anyone say anything of the shape of his mask, Maman?” Meg questions, coming sit by the eldest Giry. “It’s more likely to be believed that he died in the fire. If anyone accuses him, they have no proof to stand behind. I think it will be okay.” 

“A very sound proposition, Meg, but I still worry,” she says, turning to face the man again. “I’m still not sure of the immigration process, but it sounds as if our names will be written down. I rather regret going through the trouble of making these documents, as it’s all verbal.” 

“I wouldn’t rush to get rid of them, Antoinette,” Erik says, leaning back against his seat, seemingly unfazed that a crazed amount of individuals on the ship were telling ghost stories of him. “I have a feeling we’ll have difficulty with myself. And I can’t imagine that this . . . paperless period will last much longer. Though it certainly makes our situation easier.” 

Maman nods, and asks Meg to fetch her cane, and Meg brings it over to her, sitting by her once more. “We’ll keep up the ruse of you both being married until we are in the States.” She turns back to Erik, and palms the top of her cane in her hand, preparing to stand. “We’ll find you a new name, a pseudonym, and keep you as hidden as possible. I’ve heard of a new cosmetic process in which you may be able to lessen the bad side of your face, Erik.” 

His eyes now carefully dragged back to the older woman, and his fingers raised to the masked side of his face. “You mean . . . “

“Yes, my boy, I do,” she says, with a small smile on her face. “Though it’s ultimately your choice.” 

Meg glances at him then, her eyes surveying the half landscape of his face that was publicly viewable, and imagined how he’d look, his face whole, and she blushes as his eyes meet hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him analyze her, confusion painting his features, before looking away. She fights the blush away and addresses her mother again, who was now standing and walking toward the door. 

“Are you sure you’re ready to return, Maman?” She asks, coming to stand beside her and help the Madame back into her velvet-lined coat. 

“I’ll be alright, Meg. Just be careful, as always,” she warns, and Meg nods, opening the door. She watches her Maman make her way down the hallway before closing the door and turning back around, finding Erik now sprawled across the bed, his ridiculous height forcing his legs to hang off the end and the side. 

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Meg says, gathering their dishes into a neat pile on the serving plate. 

“She can’t come back,” he says, and the blonde glances at him, a worried expression lining her forehead.

“What do you mean? Maman?” She asks, and he shakes his head. 

“Your little friend from yesterday. What was her name? Felicity,” he says, and Meg breathes deeply, trying to keep herself stoic and calm. 

“And why not? She doesn’t know my fake husband is the former Phantom of the Opera,” she argues back, moving to set the dishes outside of the door. “I will do as I please.”

He sits up now, his eyebrows raised. “And what will you say this time? Perhaps you will lead her to believe I’m exhausted from nighttime activities, again?” He chuckles as she blushes again, and settles himself back against the mattress. “Especially with your mother in the same room. Can you imagine what she must think of you?” 

Meg rolls her eyes. “I am not talking about this with you, you disgusting, foul-minded man.” Meg turns away, walking back to her corner of the room, and tried the windows again, disappointment curling threw her as she found the weather to be dark and dreary once more, the sunlight refusing to poke out. 

Erik’s eyebrows raise in humor, his eyes following her as she makes her way towards the curtains, and watches her face fall at the gray and blue landscape outside. She closes the curtains and digs around in her mother’s things before pulling out a box of matches, and lighting the candle near the sink. She then curls up on the couch, a blanket thrown about her, and held a book in her hand, which Erik recognized as ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’. Before he could comment, however, there was a scream down the hallway, and then a yell, which belonged to her mother. 

Before he could even breathe, Meg leaps up and quickly crosses the room, but Erik catches her by the arm and pulls her back to him, a wild and fearful look in her eyes. “Meg, you need to stay here,” he says calmly to her, his tone gentle, trying to coax the fierce and scared look from her eyes. She, however, doesn’t hear a single word, and now began to shout at him to let her go. 

Erik looked toward the door as there was more commotion outside, and dark, quick shadows flew past, marking their path beneath the door. He panicked, Meg now only fighting harder and steadily raising her voice, screeching, “Maman!” and pushing against his hand before his arm snaked around her waist and his hand found her mouth, effectively silencing her. 

“Meg!” He exclaims roughly, and at the cringe of the woman in his arms, he now regards her with a soothing tone, sugar dripping from his voice. “Meg, you need to calm down. It wasn’t your mother who screamed, and we need to stay in here.” 

She stopped fighting and melted, and he removed his arm and hand from her, and Meg wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold. “Are you sure it wasn’t here? She yelled . . . I know it was her who yelled.”

Before he could respond, the sky suddenly became very dark, and the room blacked and decayed. Meg squeezed her eyes shut, beyond frightened and terrified, but knew she had to stay in the room, regardless of what happened outside. There was more commotion and yelling, but Meg couldn’t make any words out, except that everyone seemed terrified of what lay beyond in the hallway. She subconsciously moved closer to Erik, desperate for comfort, though she knew he wouldn’t offer any. 

“Erik,” she began, but he cut her off, shaking his head and holding a finger to his lips to signal her to be quiet before glancing back at the door. The shadow stopped before it, and Meg listened earnestly for the sound of her mother, but found none. 

The doorknob then began to rattle, and many shadows bleed beneath the door, and Erik pulled Meg away, sweeping her towards the small room, quickly closing and locking the door. She fell against him, fear and nausea beginning to overwhelm her, but Erik flinches as she does so. His fingers come about her shoulders and leads her toward the bed, instructing her to lay down and be quiet. She does so, her eyes cast toward the door as she hears the larger one swing open, and she listens as carefully as she can, desperate to hear her mother’s voice. 

Tears gather in her eyes before she hears her Maman say, “I only had a fright . . . I’ve recently been exposed to something similar. It merely brought me back, though the sight of anything to that nature should warrant such a response,” she exclaims to an unknown person, and Meg covers her mouth, a sob hiccuping through her mouth in relief. She spots Erik sag against the wall, seemingly experiencing a similar emotion to hers. 

The voices outside faded away, and Meg glanced toward the masked man, feeling relieved that he was here. She evaluated then, how much her feelings toward him had shifted in the past week, though that was hardly her fault. They quite literally hadn’t been apart for that amount of time, and Meg supposed it made sense that they would grow closer, though she still felt somewhat wary of his unpredictable behavior. She was slowly learning what triggers those emotions, though she couldn’t walk on eggshells forever. She was doing her part, now it was time for him to do his. 

His eyes met hers, and after a moment of hesitation, she slid over to the left side of the bed so she was no longer straddling the middle and patted her hand beside, offering the seat next to hers. He shook his head no, giving her a wild look, but she did so once more, mouthing that she wanted to talk, so he rolled his eyes and cautiously joined her, nearly on the edge to keep space between them. 

“And what, Meg Giry, did you want to speak of?” He questions, his whisper just as powerful as his normal voice, and she shivered. 

“What happened?” She replies quietly, her voice still wobbly from her fright earlier. “Can you hear?”

He nods, twining his fingers in front of him and placing them on his lap, legs sprawling out across the bed in front of him. He leaned back against the headboard, and Meg was shocked at how still he could become. He seemed stiff, maybe uncomfortable. “I need you to promise me that you’ll stay calm, Meg,” he says, his voice low and comforting, and Meg feels that magnetic pull again, and sinks into herself, as if sleepy. She felt strangely calm. 

“I promise,” she replies, curling on her side to face him, hands beneath her chin. 

“Someone has died,” he said, and an alarmed look passes through Meg’s face, and his hand immediately shoots out to wrap around her upper arm, and she relaxes, though he quickly pulls away. 

“When . . . “ she begins, her voice shaking again. “When you say someone has died . . . do you mean -”

“Killed, Madame Giry, killed! We will be ruined!” A shout comes from outside, and Meg freezes up, her knees curling up to her chest and covers her face with her hands. She tried to calm her breathing and moved a hand to cover her heart and the other to her stomach, and tried to steady her breathing, though her brain whirred with fright. Never had more happened in her eighteen years of life than what all had occurred in the past week. What more was to come? 

And, the more pressing question, who died? 

She heard weeping outside, feminine and high, and Meg’s heart dropped, knowing that maybe whoever had died had had a daughter, now left behind. Meg couldn’t imagine losing her maman, and her chest tightens at the thought. She’d surely follow her mother in death if the older Giry passed. 

There was a rattling of the door, and both Meg and Erik’s attention snapped toward the noise. “What do we do?” She mouthed toward him, and he pushed her back down onto the bed, the masked side of his face smothered by pillows. She nearly yelped as his arm came back down around her waist and pulled her body towards him, her back against his chest. She stiffens, feeling warm and strange and wanting to push him away. 

“We’re asleep, Meg,” he whispers, and she slowly relaxes her body and curves into him. It was comforting, the affection, which is what she always sought from her mother and Christine and her other friends. It also felt intoxicating, the warmth he gave her, and she felt her heart begin to calm, though nervous energy raced through her limbs. 

“Monsieur, my daughter and her husband are resting. Leave them be. My daughter recently was prey to tragic events, and hasn’t been sleeping well. If you wake her, I will be quite short with you,” her mother warns, though the door still comes open, a key jiggling in the lock. 

“I apologize, Madame, but every crevice of the room must be checked,” the man says, and Meg wonders if he is the owner of the ship, or perhaps one of the higher-ups. The door then swings open and Meg stills herself, attempting not to flinch. His arm tightens around her waist, as if in warning, and then voices begin to overlap once more. 

“Leave them be,” said the weeping woman. “That woman . . . she was kind to me. I believe that she had nothing to do with this, nor her husband.” 

Meg recognized the voice easily: it was Fleck, and she was shocked that her stomach could plummet anymore than what it already had. Erik must have felt the emotion swelling within her, as his hand slowly crept up slowly and inconspicuously to cover her heart, and he breathed deeply, in and out. Meg followed him, his fingers a cold and firm pressure against her collarbone, and though she felt her head start to clear, she still felt warm and overwhelmed. 

“Do none of you care for privacy? They’ve been asleep this whole time. They haven’t killed anyone, nor is there anyone hiding in the room. Are you quite satisfied?” Madame Giry exclaims, hissing quietly, and Meg hears grumbling before the door swiftly closes, the click soft and gentle. Erik immediately releases her, and the cold of the room is freezing and unwelcome, and Meg curls under the blankets, shaking from the frigid air. She knew it was early in the evening, which she welcomed for their disguise. If it had been any earlier, suspicion most certainly would have followed them. 

After the footsteps seemed to leave and the door closed one last time, Erik leapt off the bed and crossed to the other side of the room. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she hears him say with little emotion. 

She doesn’t respond for a moment, her eyes gazing out of the glass-covered window. “What else would we have done? Hide under the bed?” She replies, curling into herself more. “It’s alright, Erik. I don’t find you at any fault.” 

He doesn’t reply back, though she hears him slide down the wall, sitting in a corner. Meg turns away from the window, the light from outside now too thick for her tired eyes. She felt exhausted, all the stress and nerves and never-ending fright of many minutes settling onto her already abused consciousness. 

“Go to sleep, Meg. I’ll leave when Madame Giry returns and allows me out,” he says to her, her eyes already drooping, even though moments ago she had felt wide-awake. 

She drifts off to sleep quickly, somewhere far away and sunny, somewhere with Maman and Papa, and maybe Christine and Raoul were there. When they all gathered together, though, however, there was a strange addition to the group, a man donning a mask and clad in black. 

Erik watched Meg as she slept soundly, curiosity flooding him of the way her perspective is shaped and how she views situations. How similar her and Christine are, yet different in nearly all ways. At remembering her, a certain guilt suddenly racked him at the way he had held Meg, though he had never Christine - or anyone - in such a way before, nor did he truly think he ever would. He wanted her back at his side - so fiercely that he could barely breathe - and though he wished, he knew that he was likely never to see her again. His mind began turning, introducing and creating new ways for her to return to him, but he waved them away, thinking of the temper of the elder Giry and, strangely enough, not wanting to bring more pain to the blonde lying on the bed before him. 

His back began to ache from the position, and he stood, stretching and wincing at his tight muscles from sitting so long. Night had fallen, the light beginning to fade to black, and he glanced toward the door, frustrated that the Madame had not returned yet. His eyes were then cast toward the bed with the sleeping dancer, wrapped in blankets and curled away from the window, facing him. 

Erik closes his eyes and slowly climbs onto the bed, maintaining just as much distance as before, nearly hanging off of the bed. He sat up again, near the headboard, with no intention of falling unconscious. Though after a while of battling his thoughts of Christine and time continued to pass, his eyes began to flutter close and breathing deepen. His last conscious thought was of Antoinette’s sure wrath at the way he had held her daughter. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“We truly have nothing!” The man shouted, slamming his hand on the desk, and all but Madame Giry flinched. She sent a stern gaze toward him, and calmly explained that reacting violently leads them nowhere closer to an answer. She was anxious to return back to Meg and reassure her, knowing she must have had a fright, and her only comfort was a man who had experienced so little of any he surely didn’t know how to return it. And though it was a clever thought, she could certainly ring Erik’s neck for handling Meg that way. 

“Then what do you suggest, Madame?” The man said, his accent thick and English. “Nearly everyone on board will know what has occurred in, well, surely, the next handful of minutes. We have no way to protect the passengers, no way to reassure Miss Felicity, and no justice to be brought about if we can’t find the killer!”

“Couldn’t she have . . . simply offed herself?” A young man in the back asked, and the older woman laughed, gripping her cane tighter. 

“You simply weren’t there, Monsieur. It was a horrid sight indeed - no single being could have mutilated herself to that extent.” She turns back to the inspector and curls her fingers to now cradle the cane in both hands. “We haven’t searched your rooms nor your desk yet. Perhaps that should be next in our investigation.” 

“That’s absurd!” The man says, now standing from his seated position. “We searched in the beginning, what makes you think there’s anything now?” 

Madame Giry moves him aside, and he begins to shake from anger. Before he can say anything, however, the brunette finds a crumpled parchment in the top drawer, and pulls it out for their inspection. “A letter, I see.” 

His eyes blow wide and he burns in shame from the curious glances cast in his direction. “I . . . Madame, surely you know I have no part in this plot!” 

She nods, carefully unfolding the paper with leathery-gloved hands. “Of course, Monsieur. I had a feeling evidence would be planted with you.” 

“With me?” He stutters, crossing the room toward her. “How?” 

“Intuition,” she replies, but as she reads the letter, fear begins to coil through her, and her head became abuzz with confusion and fright and sudden understanding. 

“I must return to my family to alert them of the news,” she says quickly, shoving the letter into his hands, and he quickly reads the letter, the words burning into his mind and he glances back up at her, confusion riddling his vision. 

“Now, Madame, we must figure out what connects you to this case - “ He argues, but she cuts him off with a raised hand. 

“Monsieur, it’s not right for me to keep my daughter in the dark. She should be prepared for anything. If they are after me, they may come near her too, which I simply won’t allow. I will see you soon,” she says, and crosses quickly out of the room, cold and lowered eyes following her and she races down the hallway. 

“You idiot! You fool!” A man shouts under his breath, though it was too quiet for the aged mother to hear. He disappears back into the shadows, returning back to wherever he came from. 

Right when she opens the door to their room, she hears silence, and her heart drops, worry flooding her that something had happened to Erik and Meg. The door was still unlocked from when it had been opened from earlier, and she carefully cracks it open, and some strange mix of shock and something else layer inside of her at the sight before her. 

Erik was asleep, his hands folded and twined before him, his head leaning back and his mask slightly ajar. Meg, however, was curled on her side toward him, her blonde strands brushing against his clothed thigh, and her fingers reaching toward his. 

She didn’t want to wake either one, and instead kept the door open and sat upon her own bed in the bigger room, her cane in her shaking hands. Meg was smart and reasonable, she knew this, but the Madame began to feel more regret than before for bringing Meg along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think? I hope you all enjoyed! 
> 
> Also, on a side note, my dance studio is opening back up in two weeks (YAY!!), but I still will be updating as often as possible :). Stay safe everyone!


	8. chapter eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last day of the cruise, and New York City is only a day away. Erik and Meg have another heart to heart, then panic strikes again, yet this time, it is everything they were afraid of it being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi to everyone whenever this update reaches you! Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoy! :)

“Maman, it’s okay! This isn’t your fault,” Meg reassures her, sitting next to the older woman. The blonde carefully grasps the cane from her and leans it against the edge of the couch. “What else could you have done?” 

“Nothing, nothing, I know, dear,” she replies, patting the younger girl’s hand. “I fear that this situation is much larger than what we were expecting. I honestly thought we could escape, unseen and unknown.” She takes both of her daughter’s hands tightly in her hands, and squeezes them. “I fear much for you, Meg.” 

Meg chuckles, squeezing her hands back. “I’ll be fine, Maman. No one has seen my face,” she suggested lightly. She felt fear, yes, but much less after knowing that Erik wouldn’t raise a hand against her. 

Erik was a tangle of anxiety and energy across the room, silently pacing back and forth in the matter of a few feet. Tapered fingers were tightly clasped behind him, and his cape lay haphazardly on the back of a chair. 

“Erik,” Madame Giry whispers, her eyes glancing up at him. He ignores her, continuing breathing in his thoughts, until her voice raises. “Erik! Please . . . “ 

He stops then, his posture stiffening before his shoulders cave forward. “What would you have me say, Antoinette? I didn’t choose to come on this journey. I would have preferred to have died in that fire.” 

His words tug on Meg’s heart something awful, and open Meg to a realm of possibilities that his outlook on life may be, in fact, as bleak as that. She kept her eyes away from his, but the Madame was too quick to miss it. Again, that strange, sinking feeling filled her, but Meg had always been compassionate and empathetic, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Though her daughter was smart and could hold her own, she sometimes worried how her heart would fair in the uncaring world, if she passed and Meg didn’t have any prospects. And even beyond that, would Meg be safe in a city she hardly knew? Even with her there? Her own heart clenched at the thought. 

“Erik, if anything . . .” and for the first time in her life, Meg saw tears in the Madame’s eyes. Not even did she remember seeing such emotion when her father left. “If anything happens to Meg . . .” She glances up, then, her gaze sharp and serious. “Promise me. Promise nothing will happen to her.” 

“Maman,” Meg pleads, fingers squeezing the elder woman’s. “I’ll be fine. Once we’re off the boat, we’ll have new names. No one will find us . . . we have just have to be careful a little while longer.” 

Her gaze doesn’t leave the masked man’s however, and his own eyes lift to hers. He looked at the two women, then, and the unread emotion in both Giry’s eyes sparked something in him. His gaze slid to Meg’s, and she glanced up at his, and he suddenly couldn’t breathe. Regardless of anything he believed happened all those nights ago, both of the women had sacrificed nearly everything for him. Why? Why had they done that? Why hadn’t they left him to rot? He suddenly imagined Meg sprawled on the floor, much like that woman must have been found, eyes open and glassy and a pool of red beneath her. It pained him, the thought. It felt similar to whenever Carlotta had tormented Christine, and he wanted to rip the plump woman limb from limb. 

He exhaled and stepped closer, never breaking eye contact with the blonde, and her eyes slid upwards, his form resting tall above her, but never once did she cower. He closes his eyes then, just for a few moments, ridding himself of Christine’s ghost that always seemed to remain in his mind, and the images of blonde hair stained blood-red. 

“I promise,” he says, something fierce and determined but wary in his eyes. “Nothing will happen to your daughter, Antoinette, I assure you. So long as I am here and walking.” Then to Meg, “But don’t be stupid.” 

“Erik, out of the three of us, it’s not me we should be worried about being stupid,” she replies pointedly, and before he could react, her expression melts into a small smile. Erik’s fingers twitch, and some unknown emotion welled in him - something soft and fierce - and then it was all over, Madame Giry standing, and Meg assisting her with her cane.

“Meg, I’m alright,” she insists, but the ballerina shook her head and continued helping her mother to the bed. 

“Go to sleep, Maman. We’re all tired. You’ll feel better in the morning,” she promises, and helps her mother into the bed, pulling the blankets up and about her. She sets her cane against the wall, and sits with her mother, holding her hand tightly before it loosens with sleep. She stays there for many moments before gently removing her grip, and making her way toward the small bedroom. Once she crosses the threshold of the door frame, Erik catches her wrist, and Meg whips around in surprise, and Erik slowly closes the door behind him. 

A candle was perched on the table next to the bed, and once again, his figure haunted Meg at its ghostly appearance in the dim light, and the moon’s ray casting eerie beams across his mask. 

“I’m tired. What is it, Erik?” She questions, making no move to release his grip on her wrist. He lowers it to her side, and takes a step closer to hers. His eyes peer into her own, and she shivers, suddenly feeling self-conscious and cold. 

“Why are you kind to me, Meg?” He asks softly, and Meg looks at his startled, her eyes narrowing as she analyzes his features. 

“We’ve gone over this before, Erik,” she answers, her eyes softening and gazing up at him now, sincerity and vulnerability in his expression. “You don’t have to tell me much more than what I’ve already seen. I’m sorry if someone made you feel unlovable or that it was hard to love you, and though you’ve certainly not acted like a Saint, you’re human. You exist. You can allow yourself to feel pain and anger and love.” She bites her lip, in embarrassment (she hoped her words came across correctly), as if knee-deep in another thought, and expresses, “Though you’ve done unforgivable things, you’ve shown remorse in some form.” Her hands come up to cup his forearms, and smiles sadly at him. “I think everything you’ve done is tearing you apart.” 

She sees his eyes squeeze shut and his fists clench, and her fingers wrap around his, probing them to release his grip. “You don’t need to be angry, Erik.” 

His eyes snap open, and his gaze becomes hard. “Me? I have no reason to be angry? The woman I love just left me! I’ve killed more men then you’ve met in your life, Meg Giry! My mother hated me, that fool for a priest hated me, and I give them no remorse.” His words frightened her, and he wrenched his hands away, but she remained close, his hot breath and angry words on her cheeks. “And that man . . . that man at the circus deserved it. He deserved all of it. He was going to hurt me, and he hurt others, and it was the only way, Meg, the only way!” 

“What do you mean ‘hurt you’, Erik?” She asks, and he turns away from her, his eyes clenching shut. She didn’t understand any of what he was saying, but she remembered Raoul mentioning a circus, and that he was labeled as a freak there. 

“He was going to hurt me! And that’s not all. There’s so much more you don’t know about. And if you knew, oh! If only you know, you’d hate me just the same. Just as my mother did, just as everyone did, just as Christine does!” 

She doesn’t reply, and he grabs her wrists again, and pulls her up to him. “Why aren’t you telling me what a horrible person I am? Aren’t you frightened of me? The man who ripped you away from your home, destroyed your career, terrorized you and your friends, and will likely drag you into something much, much worse? Why are you kind to me!” 

She didn’t deny any of his words, but instead, she pulled her wrists out of his grip, and wrapped her arms around his waist. He was thin, which she knew, but she felt muscle beneath her grip, and his heartbeat quickened beneath her head. How quickly he came to anger, to destruction. She held him all the tighter for it, not knowing how to comfort him, not knowing what to tell him. 

He didn’t react at all, other than the stiffening of his posture and muscles, and the frantic breaths he took. His hands found her shoulders, and curled into the cloth of the nightgown. He savored her touch, gentle and tight, yet after some time, he pushed her away. It reminded him too much of Christine, and he desperately hoped it wasn’t some ploy. 

She glanced up at his face, his hands still on her shoulders, and he looked back. Sun melted down her shoulders, and moonlight wove through her gown, and her eyes were crystal and soft as they gazed at him, and he searched for pity and anger and found none. As if for the first time, he looked at her, and she was so beautiful, standing by the moon, the candlelight gently kissing her skin, it nearly pained him. He reached out then, and long fingers brushed against her cheek. His gaze followed, mapping with his touch and with his eyes the expanse of her right cheek, pink and white and soft. 

“I don’t hate you, Erik,” she whispers, and his gaze snaps up to hers, and then he violently withdraws his hand back, as if burned. If only she knew, then she would, he convinced himself. If not even the Madame knew everything, how could she? He wished it were Christine in front of him, then, he realized, and his fingers fisted by his sides. 

“Goodnight, Meg,” he says roughly, quickly leaving the room. Meg stands exactly where she was, arms coming to wrap around herself. She wasn’t sure if she had done something wrong, but a black thing sunk in her chest, and she felt empty and cold. Had she done something wrong? And why had he touched her like that? 

And why did she wish he would have touched her longer? 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He’d only slept a few minutes, propped on the couch, when he awoke to faint noise outside, and candlelight cracked through. He quickly reaches into his waistband but found no lasso, as it was back at the opera house. His hands were nearly as lethal as he snuck toward the door, though there was a letter slid underneath. He quickly opened the door but found no one in the darkness. His closes the door then and picks up the letter, unfolding it, and the sleep behind his eyes makes it difficult to read. He lights a candle, his eyes beginning to adjust, and his eyes blow wide as he reads the contents of the letter. 

Dear Madame Giry and the other two other inhabitants of this cabin room,  
This is your one and final warning. Otherwise, we find your pretty little blonde.  
Either disclose what you know, or find out what happens next.  
We know who you are, and where you are going.  
-Rick

Madame Giry awoke from the sudden light that had entered the room, and her eyes landed on Erik, and a curling piece of parchment his hands. She comes out of bed and walks toward him, holding her hand out to him. He hands her the letter, and as she reads it, fear returns to her, and Erik thought she looked as if she were either going to kill, or to cry. With his experience with women so far, he figured both. 

“Get Meg,” she whispers, and he turns to her, confused. “Get Meg!” She repeats, her voice frightened and angry. “Go down to the lower levels and find an empty employee cabin room or anything to hide in. Do not leave until I come and find you,” she says, and he still doesn’t move. 

“Antoinette, I really don’t think this is necessary. I’ll hunt him down and -” 

“If you even think about killing another, I will take you to prison myself,” she hisses, and Erik stiffens. “This is my daughter’s life on the line right now. This is exactly what I was worried about.” She presses a hand to her forehead, as if trying to calm herself down. “Take her now, Erik.” 

He moves toward her room as the Madame leaves, clutching her cane in one hand and the letter in another. She finds the cabin room of a couple she had befriended earlier, whom the husband was friends with the Captain. Listening to further, he went to Meg’s room, leaned over her, and shook her awake. 

She wakes slowly, though as her eyes meet his mask, she yelps and shoves him away, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders. 

“I’ll tell you later, since you’ll constantly ask until I tell you everything,” he says, and she looks at him in confusion as he grabs her coverling and throws it at her. “We have to go.” 

“Go where?” She asks, wide awake from her fright. She slips the heavy thing about her, and looks about her, looking for her slippers. 

“Just come on, Meg!” And then he was pulling her out the door into the darkness, and Meg hears yelling down the other side of the hallway, and sees the figure of her mother. 

“What -” She begins to question but he shushes her and pulls her into a run now, descending the flights of stairs as quickly as they can. She nearly trips several times, her legs much shorter than his, bare feet running against the cold floor. He whips her around the corner and they descend even further, the air cooler now, her feet nearly frozen from the cold. 

It was nearly pitch black now, and the only warmth offered to her was the cotton wrapped around her, the tie in the front now loose, and his palm against hers. She wished to stop him, to force him to tell her what was going on, but she stayed silent, her mind flying around possibilities, each becoming worse and worse until she was shaking in fear. This was about her, wasn’t it? 

They came to a door of a supply room, Meg thought, as she observed what was around them. It was still dark, but she felt cool cement beneath her, and when she raised her hand to press her fingers against the wall, it was the same smooth, frozen texture. She jumped as the door unlocked, and Erik pulled her in, quickly locking the door behind them. 

It was cramped and dark in the room, and immediately upon entering, Meg stepped on a shard of what felt like glass, and a cry left her mouth as pain exploded through her foot. He let go of her and she slid to the ground, her hand covering her mouth as she tried to breathe, tried to focus on anything but the pain and her foot and the danger. 

“Erik,” she cries, pulling her foot toward her, and wincing as she prods the wound. 

“I need some light,” he says, and after hearing a match rubbed against a sandy surface, porcelain and golden skin gaze down at her. There weren’t any candles, from what Meg could see, so she watched, clutching her foot, as he found an empty glass jar, threw a crumpled piece of paper in it, and took a bottle of what looked like vodka off the wall. He glanced at the label, flicked the lid off and then poured it into the jar, holding the match to the paper before it was set aflame. He waves the match out, then turns to Meg, kneeling down next to her. 

“I think I stepped on glass,” she says, and glancing behind them, sure enough, was a pile of a crackled glass jar in the doorway. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Let me see,” he instructs, and she pulls her foot closer to herself, and he looks at her, pointedly and reassuringly, and she slowly releases her grip and lowers her foot toward him. 

His fingers find her foot, warm against her cold skin, fingers pushing into the arch of her foot. 

“The glass shard is still embedded. It’ll need to be removed,” he tells her, placing her foot on his knee and reaching out toward the bottle of vodka. 

“Is that for me?” She questions, and he shakes his head, bringing it to his lips. 

“No,” he says, taking a drink for himself. His words were rough as he said, “it’s for me.” He brings it down toward her foot, and reaches up with his other hand to grab a bleached cloth, hopefully clean. “This isn’t going to feel pleasant, Meg, and you need to be quiet.” 

She nods, and she nearly feels like screaming as he pours the liquid over her wound. She closes her eyes tightly, and the sharp smell of alcohol floods the room. She covers her mouth with her hand, and instead tries to focus on the ground beneath her, his fingers, possibly anything else then - 

She hisses as he attempts to pull out the glass and her foot jerks away, back toward her, and grabs her ankle, pulling it back. He holds it tighter now, and carefully pulls the glass out, and she whimpers as he pours more alcohol over the wound. He wraps the cloth around her foot, the faux white quickly turning to scarlet. He nearly asks if she’s alright.

Meg blinks away the tears in her eyes as the pain slowly begins to subside, and she wonders just how good of an idea it was to pull it out with his bare hands. 

“Is there someone after us?” She asks, and he doesn’t answer at first, and she suddenly knows the real reason. Why her mother was nowhere in sight, why they’d been in such a rush to leave. “There’s someone after me.” 

For the first time in a long time, Erik felt the sharp pang of guilt in his stomach. If not for him, she wouldn’t be targeted. His heart hardened, however, at the thought of his own self rotting in prison, somewhere damp and musty and alone, except for the other criminals he’d be beside. 

She huffs a sigh of anger, and winces as she tries to extend her leg, to lay the back of her heel on the ground. “The least you can do is answer me. We’re probably going to be in here until morning anyway, and I’m not certain I could sleep after all that’s happened.” 

His fist tightens, but he releases it, and casts a look toward the bottom of the door. “There was a note addressed to your mother slid under the door this morning. I couldn’t see who it was, though I should have ran and killed them myself, to put an end to all of this.” 

“Don’t speak of death and killing so . . . “ she couldn’t find the word. “So . . . normally.”

He turns away from her, and she glances down, gulping. Before she could ask him to continue, he does so anyway. 

“They referred to you as our ‘pretty little blonde’. That means they were - “

“They were in the room the night Fleck’s mother was killed,” Meg says, her palms planting themselves on either side of her. 

“Precisely,” he says, and Meg looks to the side, enough of a space beside her for himself. Before he asks, however, he interrupts, “This is becoming rather routine, Meg, as if you enjoy my presence.” 

She shrugs. “It’s not as abhorrent as before. Just sit, and quit being moody.”

He comes and sits beside her, cautious of her foot, and slides down beside her. “I know we’ve only known each other a little over a week, but I’d like us to be friends,” Meg admits, glancing up at him, her forehead nearly at his shoulder. It was more so directed at his arm because of that, but she sensed his head turning toward her, and his warm breath on the top of her head. 

“What makes you think I need any friends?” His voice was gruff, and Meg thought she heard grief, covered up by layers of loathing. 

“We don’t have to be. I’d like to, because beneath all your dramatics, is a man I’d actually like to get to know,” she admits, and his breath stops, and then a low chuckle. 

“Did I not warn you before, Giry? You don’t know half the -”

She cuts him off, shaking her head. “You’ll tell me all of it someday, or maybe you never will, or maybe someday I’ll leave and we’ll never see each other again.” 

In a rare moment, he appreciated her acceptance that he may never tell her anything, and though doubt was an ocean in his mind, so was hope, slowly trickling in, like a river. 

“And what if we make a fortune?” He says lightly, and Meg grins, appreciating his effort. She bumps her shoulder against his, and though he stiffens, she ignores it. 

“Perhaps I’ll stay for a little while, then. Should my entire future career revolve around you?” She giggles. “You’ll have to pay me twenty-thousand of whatever currency is in America.” 

Conversation was light until there was a sudden noise outside, and Meg startled, kicking the jar over and knocking the light out. 

“Now look what you’ve done,” Erik scolds, his voice low and teasing. 

“Shut up!” Meg hisses back, putting a finger over his lips. 

“What was that?” A French voice says, and she hears them clamber closer to the door, and she reaches for Erik’s hand, clutching it tightly as anxiety courses through her. She feels more than hears his huff of breath at the crown of her head as her fingers touch his, but makes no move to retreat. 

“Should we check in there?” A woman’s voice says, and the man laughs after a moment. 

“No, it’s probably just Short and Isabelle in there. Can’t keep their hands off of each other for even a minute. We’ve probably given them a right fright, we have!” Meg tenses and flinches again as he bands on the door. “Hurry up in there! The boss wants to see in fifteen.” Meg holds her breath as the two figures walk away. 

After a few moments, Erik pulls his hand away from hers. “Why do you keep always taking my hand?” 

She chuckles, though her heart is still racing. “It’s a force of habit - I’ll try to remember not to touch you all the time. I always used to hold hands with - “ Christine, she thought, but she was glad she thought to hold her tongue, though Meg knows he is quick-witted enough to catch her hesitation - “with my friends, whenever I was excited or scared, or one of us was upset.” 

“Affection is rather disgusting,” he grunts, folding his hands in his lap, and she spies his onyx ring, gleaming in the now near darkness. 

“That’s just because you haven’t been shown enough,” she says, nudging his shoulder with her own. That isn’t too much, right? He doesn’t flinch when she does so, which she notes. 

He stares at her, rather agape, yet beyond humored by her boldness. “You seem to have a joyful time making fun of my trauma, Meg Giry.” 

She doesn’t reply for a second, and her fingers tightly coil by her stomach. Cutting him off, she says, “I’m sorry if I offended you. I meant it as a joke. I would never make fun of anything that’s happened to you, and I’m sorry for anything that’s been done to you.” 

He stares at her back, admonished by her apology. Was she real? Was this truly how normal people spoke? How friends spoke? So aware of his feelings? “It was a joke,” he says, and she laughs awkwardly at herself. “But . . . but thank you,” he says softly, his eyes closing. No one had ever been as considerate of his feelings, except for Madame Giry. This felt . . . different. As if they were equal in some way. As if she could reach inside of him, and find the understanding she so furiously sought of him. Her words struck him powerfully, and wondered if she could read his thoughts. His thoughts strayed to Christine, wishing she could have done the same. 

There were more noises beyond the door after that, and in the effort to stay quiet, conversation between them ceased. His close presence eventually warmed Meg and her eyes fluttered closed, napping lightly, and when her head fell against his shoulder, he nearly flinched, and desperately wanted to remove it. He didn’t want to wake her, nor move her, as he didn’t know how much her foot pained her (though he imagined a lot if her wound was hit against the floor). Instead he sat still, uncomfortable and stiff, but the pressure of her eventually melted against him, and his arm felt warm. He didn’t sleep much, only dozing off one or two times. 

For the time being, they were safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think? I love hearing your feedback and reactions! 
> 
> Also, commenting a <3 means the same as an extra kudo to me :).
> 
> I love you all! Stay safe :).


	9. chapter nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we've finally made our way to New York City! but are all of their troubles really behind them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my lovely readers! i hope you are all doing well! here's the next chapter :).

Erik awoke a few hours later to the clack of a cane against the floor, and he recognizes the walk as Madame Giry’s. He slowly detracts himself from Meg, gently pushing her so she leaned more heavily against the wall than himself, and moved to unlock and open the door. 

He found the elder Giry outside, holding a lantern with one hand, and the tell-tale cane in the other. He looks frantically at her cane, and she shakes her head. 

“Many of the employees are already upstairs, keeping watch around the guest rooms and preparing the ship for departure. We can talk,” she assures him, and he nods, kicking the door open with his heel and setting a bucket full of cleaning supplies he’d gathered from one of the shelves to prop the door open. 

“Meg stepped on a glass shard last night. I extracted it and cleaned the wound, but it may be best if a medical professional still examine it,” he says, and the woman goes to her waking daughter’s side, smoothing a hand over her head. 

“Morning, Maman,” Meg greets, her eyelids fluttering open and slightly stretching, but wincing at her foot. She felt sore all over, and exhaustion was a heavy weight on her mind, but she felt relieved to get off the ship and be rid of the mystery surrounding everything. They wouldn’t be able to follow them into New York City, relatively unknown, would they? 

Meg tries to stand to join her mother and Erik, but struggles to stand without gasping in pain from her foot. Her mother sends a worried glance down at her and turns toward Erik. 

He scoffs. “Well, what do you want me to do? I’m hardly a doctor . . . I wouldn’t know the first thing about treating pain!” 

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Come here, Meg,” she says, and Meg looks at her mother frantically. Though the former prima ballerina had helped her and other girls with injuries many times before, she knew that the cold worked against her mother’s already sore and weak joints, and wasn’t sure if she’d be able to support both Meg’s and her own weight. 

“Maman, it’s alright - I can walk myself,” she says, and attempts to slide back up the wall, only putting weight on one leg, but against the rough texture and the pressure working against her efforts. 

She feels Erik, then, kneeling down beside her, and wrapping an arm under her shoulders. She nearly jerks away from him, but once the warm skin of his fingers meet her back and mismatched eyes find hers, she relaxes, and her fingers fist into the cloth at the front of his shoulders. His other hand moves beneath her thigh, and Meg shivers at the contact, and he helps her stand before him. 

“Thank you,” she replies, not yet letting go, worried of toppling over. She feels her mother come behind her, smoothing back hair that had fallen in front of her face. 

“Are you alright? Erik said you stepped on a piece of glass,” she questions, and Meg nods, attempting to turn, and nearly tripping, to which Erik’s hands find her elbows to hold her steady. 

“Perhaps I may need a bit of help walking,” she jokes nervously, feeling the tension in the man that held her up. 

“Perhaps,” he says dryly, and Meg glances up at him apprehensively, his mood already vastly different from when they had spoken earlier. He was a difficult man to read, but she knew it most likely stemmed from discomfort. “Now, if it isn’t too much to ask, could we leave this cursed ship and talk about your daughter’s apparent clumsiness later?” 

The older woman glares at Erik. “Watch your tone with me, young man,” she scolds, and he huffs a breath, but doesn’t say anything more. Meg attempts to swing her arm around his shoulder but instead reaches around his waist, and he hoists her to the side so most of her weight was against him. She felt supported enough to only reach one foot on the ground, and she gingerly rests her foot by her ankle in coupé. She limps with him as they follow Madame Giry out of the door, and his fingers tighten around her hip when she gasps painfully as her foot accidentally touches the floor. 

“We’ll need to go up a flight of stairs,” the woman announces, turning toward the odd pair. Erik refuses to look at Meg as she glances up at him, and she sighs, turning back toward her mother. 

“Help me get to the side of the stairs. I can use the railing to walk up,” the blonde announces, beginning to pull away from Erik, and she nearly shrieks when an arm loops beneath her knees, and she’s suddenly many feet off the ground. 

“Don’t look at me that way, Antoinette. You know well as I that we would have been here for hours if Meg had to climb that way,” he says, already beginning to move, wanting to set the girl down as quickly as possible. 

“A little warning next time?” Meg jokes, though she nearly felt affronted by his swiftness. 

“This will never happen again,” he says, and once they reach the last step, and though he delicately put her down, she could tell he was relieved to have her out of his careful hold. 

“I should sure hope so,” Meg replies, testing her balance as her toes slowly hit the ground. 

As he moved to support her once more and Madame Giry caught up behind them, Erik remembered a time, many months ago - was it truly almost six months? - when he had carried another woman in his arms, a halo of chocolate curling gently down her shoulders, her arms draped with lovely white lace . . . 

No, he amended, he wouldn’t think of her now. Meg’s grip loosened slightly when she began to find a rhythm with him, and they both heard the familiar clacking of the ballet mistress beside them. The blonde felt uncomfortable and exposed in her nightgown, and she was certain her bare feet were dirtied and bloodied. Once they had reached the darkened lobby, Erik helped Meg down onto a dark brown couch, where she propped her foot up and leaned back. 

“I’ll be back in a moment with our things,” she promises, settling herself next to Meg on the couch for a moment. Before she could move, however, Erik had lunged up, and already made his way down the hallway. 

“Erik,” Madame Giry began, but he held a hand up to her. 

“Let me,” he says, and then was quickly on his way off, already exiting the lobby and turning toward the set of stairs he knew to be on the other side. 

Meg leans against her mother’s shoulder, seeking comfort in affection, and a warm arm comes around her. “Are you doing alright, ma choupette?” She asks, and Meg nods, closing her eyes tiredly. 

“Other than the past week, I suppose,” she replies, giving her mother a small smile. She doesn’t respond other than an arm wrapping tighter around her, and a kiss to the crown of her head. 

“I pray that if any of us come out unscathed, it be you,” the woman says. “Don’t be frightened of what’s coming. Nothing will happen to you, alright?” 

The blonde’s eyes flicker closed, and she brings her uninjured foot underneath herself. “I hope so, Maman.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and Meg nearly fell asleep before she heard Erik return, though it was quiet and stealthy. She only became aware when she heard two bags drop, and the soft sound of approaching footsteps. 

Her eyes flickered open to land on Erik, and he stood before her, rather awkwardly. “Everything was untouched when I arrived,” he said, “The room, however, was in disarray. I found this under the bed,” he said, and held out Meg’s precious copy of Frankenstein, the covers torn off, pages ripped and crumpled, and she suspected some were missing. 

With trembling hands, she gently took the destroyed novel from him, her fingers brushing over the note left on the first page. ‘To my Little Meg, may you never change.’ She held the novel close to her heart, and shut her eyes tightly, warding off stubborn tears. 

“We’ll get you another copy, when we can,” her mother reassures, rubbing her back, but Meg shakes her head. 

“Papa gave this to me,” Meg whispers, her voice choked and distressed. “We’re never seeing him again, are we?” She takes a shuddering breath, attempting to calm herself. Now was not the time to cry, she told herself. “And . . . and he won’t even know where we are, and we surely can’t tell him . . . “ Tears began to cloud her vision with a thick sadness, and she began to feel the heavy weight of despair on her heart. 

“Meg, it’s alright, dear,” her mother shushes, brushing tears away from her daughter’s cheeks. “If it’s meant to be, we’ll find each other again.” 

She nods, and Meg wipes away the remaining tears as her mother firmly grips her cane, standing. Her gaze follows Erik as he slowly reaches out a hand to her. She cradles the damaged novel tightly to her chest with one hand as he presses her to his side, her other arm latching itself around his waist. He grabs her bag with his other hand, and she blindly limps with him, attempting to shove her emotions somewhere far, far away, far from all of this. 

She was still barefoot, bloodied, and her face was puffy and red from crying, but no one seemed to question it - or Erik’s mask, much to their relief - as they exited the boat. It was chilly, and the ground was freezing as she limped out, and Meg nearly leaned farther against Erik for warmth. 

“It’s a processing center,” her mother was telling her as Meg sat on a wooden fence, pulling a sock and boot over her uninjured foot. 

“Will there be any French speakers?” Meg questions, wincing as she tried to pull the cotton over her wrapped foot. If Erik - who presumably knew English - were left to do the talking for them, she worried that they’d never be allowed entrance. A small smirk graced her mouth at the thought. 

“I would suppose so. It would be valuable for you to learn English, though, Meg, even more so than me. Perhaps Erik can teach you,” she says, glancing over at the masked man, who was leaning against a tree growing behind the bark of the bench. His arms were crossed, and his eyebrow rose at her comment. 

“You assume too much, Madame. Perhaps I now charge a hefty fee.” 

“Perhaps you should choose a new occupation, then,” Meg adds, wincing as she knots the laces gently. She gingerly steps onto the ground, testing out the new support, but pain still shoots through her foot as the contact. 

He chuckles, and Meg’s mind reels at the darkness of his tone. She hears him approach her, but her hand darts out to stop him. “I think I’m alright.” She tests the boot out again and stands, though, after a few moments of adjusting, she was no longer in agony. 

“All for the better, then. My shoulder was beginning to cramp,” he says, and a small grin paints her lips as she begins to move, standing beside Erik. 

“Meg,” her mother says, and they both stop, turning to look toward the older woman. “Put this on. It’s important we continue to sell the ruse, or else we’ll be separated.” 

She nods, taking her mother’s ring and sliding the diamond onto her left ring finger. It was elegant and antique, and it was smooth on her sensitive skin as it slid on, near the crevice where her finger met the top of her palm. The thin circle of gold sat right above her first knuckle, and she shivered while glancing down at it. She wondered if this was what Christine felt, both times a man had offered her a ring. 

But no matter, she thought, bringing her hand back down to the side. Meg realized that she may never marry, and though perhaps she may not have, if she would have became Prima Ballerina, she knew it was what her mother wished for her. And during moments where Meg helped her friends sneak out into the night to meet their lovers behind the opera house, she craved the same kind of belonging. 

They began walking toward the entrance now, Meg’s pace slow. Fog was a heavy blanket around them, and she was thankful when her mother handed her a long coat to hide her nightgown. The sun had barely begun to rise, which made the business of the place even more shocking. It was as if this city never slept, never turned off its lights, never rested. She looked up at the large building, and could already see the immense number of people being shuffled through the windows. It was grand and functional, though nothing like the beauty of the opera house back in Paris. She wondered if this was what New York looked like, so bare and bland, and her heart sank at the thought. She knew they were offshore, somewhere called Ellis Island, and Meg racked her brain for what she’d read on this place in the past, but her exhausted and sleep-deprived mind found nothing of importance. The architecture was different, she noted, and though not as exciting as everything else she’d seen, she wondered what lay ahead of them. 

“I’ll go first,” her mother said as they entered the building, stepping in line behind one of the rows of people near the middle. Meg went next, and then the former phantom was last. Her mother glanced carefully at her, and then Erik and the message her gaze carried was the same as the last: don’t speak unless spoken to. 

It was loud and hot as they stepped through, and then Meg’s foot began to throb as it was exposed to heat and sweat. She brought her bag closer to her, burying her copy of Frankenstein near the bottom, and dug around until she found her small bag of rope and ribbons she’d used to tie her hair back. She brought out a thin strip of yellow linen and bracketed her bag between her ankles. She tied it around her hair, feeling relieved as the air hit the back of her neck. 

As she was wrapping the ribbon around her hair, Erik smelled a hint of her perfume, though he assumed it was soap she’d used to clean her hair. It was similar to Christine’s, he noted, and all the ugly emotions and heartbreak rose in his chest again. He waited for her hands to lower, and with that, the sweet and fruity scent fled his senses, and he unsqueezed his hands. 

Sweat gathered on his hairline and under his mask, making the warped skin itchy and uncomfortably sticky. Warmth also sunk beneath his stiff and expensive clothes. If he ever returned to anywhere remotely like under the opera house, he vowed he’d never think rudely of the biting cold of underground ever again. 

Similarly, Meg wanted to remove the long coat her mother had given her, but didn’t think it wise to remove it with only her nightgown beneath. She prayed they’d make it out soon, wishing for the chilly air to find her again. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she’d saw the flaming red crown of Fleck, but once she looked, she couldn’t make out whether it was her or not. She desperately had wanted to seek her out on the boat more often, wanting to form new relationships to make up for those she’d left behind, but knew it was unlikely they’d ever meet each other again. 

The blonde surmised it had been at least two hours of being herded through this heated place, wiping away sweat from her brow. Her left foot was nearly numb from leaning heavily on it for so long. She felt horrible for her mother, who was so much older than her, and knew that the heat must be cruelly unbearable for her if Meg could hardly handle it. 

She hissed as someone from the row next to them stepped on her foot, and she leaned to the side, Erik catching her before she toppled over, and moving her back in line in front of him. “Watch your step,” he drawls. 

She sputters, frustration building in her. “Someone stepped on my foot! It’s hardly my fault.” 

“And yet I don’t see how that’s my problem. Though perhaps if he does it again, you should give him a few nasty words.” She hears the grin in his voice, and a chuckle escapes her. 

She moves to face him, but before she could turn around, her sweeping gaze finds that of a man, perhaps near middle-age, staring at them. Once her gaze meets his, he quickly looks away. 

“Did you see that man?” She asks, and he nods. “Who do you think it was?” 

“Nothing to worry about, I think,” he replies, though Meg watches as his eyes harden. 

“Do you think that’s . . .” She trails off. She shivers, remembering the notes. “But they can’t follow us, right?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he repeats again, and she fixes him with a hard stare. 

“Don’t worry about the men who threatened me? Don’t worry about whoever is behind this that knows my mother’s name? My last name? Knows you wear a mask? May know what my face looks like now? Yeah, fat chance of that,” she huffs, turning back around. She picks her bag back up, and slings it around her elbow. 

“What do you want me to do? Go over there and demand he tell us who he is?” He asks, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “You can’t truly be so naive as to not realize that he may have just been staring because of your youth, Meg.” 

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” she replies. “And I’m not naive - I grew up in an opera house, where Parisian scandals usually began.” 

“Then why - “ He begins, but Madame Giry cuts him off. 

“Must you both argue incessantly? We’re almost to the front of the line. Behave.” She turns to Meg then, eyes softening. “And Erik is right, dear. Don’t worry about that man - I doubt anything will follow us.”

“And if it does?” Meg questions, fingers tangling nervously together by her stomach. 

She pauses. “I’m not sure. But if it does, we’ll figure it out when the time comes. Alright?”

Meg nods, and she picks up her mother’s bag in an effort to move forward. They were now fast approaching the front of the line, and as the sun drew higher in the sky, more people stared at the mask on Erik’s face. He ignored it casually, though she could see the anger and discomfort in his eyes. 

She heard her mother request a French speaker, and an older woman came to greet them. “Bonjour,” Meg greeted, a sweet smile on her face, glad to meet a new-faced French after all this time. She smiles back. 

“I’ll take you each one at a time, then,” she says, and glances at Madame Giry. Meg’s ears were buzzing, and she wondered if Paris was even her home anymore. They were legally entering the country, though they had fake documents that weren’t yet needed. She satisfied herself with knowing that she would always be French, and Paris would always be a part of her. Perhaps if she married or Christine found her, she could return. Or perhaps Papa would find her and whisk her away on his adventures on the sea? Last she’d heard, he traveled to London. Her eyes widened, searching the building, the beige walls on either side of them. Perhaps he was here, right now? 

“Why,” Erik says in her ear, and she startles away, turning to glance at him. 

“What?” 

“Just use ‘Y’, as in the letter, as our last name. I can’t imagine anyone else would have that name,” he explains, and Meg nods. 

“Alright,” she agrees, turning back around, fighting down a blush she hopes he doesn’t notice. She felt embarrassed, maybe even a little ashamed of her fake marriage, especially since it was something she’d thought of since she was a little girl. Never did she think - well, never did she think any of this would happen, she corrected herself. Though really, as she grew older, she didn’t want to marry, especially since it would yank her from her dancing career. And that was something she never wanted to give up. 

“Okay, Mrs. ?” The woman asks her, her mother being led toward a line in a grander room, a chandelier hung high on the ceiling, and long windows lining the sides of the room. There was expensive tile beneath them, and though she couldn’t see very far to the front, she saw that numerous people were stopping and signing documents before exiting. 

“Y. Marguerite Y,” she offers, and the woman nods, and Meg nearly cringes. Should she have used a fake first name? Perhaps this would for the best, she realized since she’d never have to worry about responding to a fake name.

“Great. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you must answer completely and honestly,” she says, and Meg can almost hear her heart as it pounds rapidly. “Have you any money, relatives or job in the United States?” Meg shakes her head. “Are you a polygamist? An anarchist?” 

“No, of course not!” She says. “No to either of those things.” 

The questions continued to come, and Meg became weary from them, though was thankful they were all “yes” and “no” questions, and none of them required much expansion on her part. She could feel Erik close behind her, listening in on the questions, and perhaps preparing responses. A doctor then came and poked and prodded her, checking for disease, and as she figured, found none. 

“Etienne Y,” she heard him say behind her, and before she was ushered off the medical table, the doctor found her attention.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why does your husband wear a mask? Is it a medical condition?” He asks, and Meg quickly developed a lie. 

“My husband fought in the Crimean War. He sustained . . . many cosmetic injuries,” she lies. “Please don’t ask him of it, if you can. He’s terribly insecure of his blemishes, and as I’m sure you know, many veterans don’t enjoy speaking of war.” 

“Of course, Madame. So long as we find no need to check for disease,” he says, and with a lump in her throat, she nods. She glances back at Erik, hoping he’d heard enough, and he discreetly nods. She’s then led back to her mother, and Erik soon joins them. 

This wait was much shorter, and they found their way to the front of the line in mere minutes. They were instructed to write their names, and then were escorted toward the front of the building, out a pair of double-doors. 

The sun was shining and hit a tall copper statue she’d only read of, and Erik explaining that it was called the Statue of Liberty, and was a gift from the French for their friendship. As they loaded onto another boat, shoulder to shoulder with people and headed midland, her gaze was fixed on the statue before turning toward the city, rising to her toes to see over the taller heads in the crowd, and she grinned and the buildings came nearer. Excitement rushed through her veins and stole the breath from her lungs. 

“You’ve truly never been out of Paris,” Erik asks her, and she shakes her head no. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. As the sun came out and warmed their shoulders and cheeks in the chilly air, Meg smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is that man really just no one special? will everything be calmer now that they've arrived in new york? what do you guys think?
> 
> also, if you'd like to connect with me on tumblr, my user is ofserien ( https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ofserien ) :). i'd love to talk to all of you! 
> 
> love you guys :).


	10. chapter ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg makes some startling realizations of what life will look like in New York City, whilst Erik begins to come to terms with all he's left behind. Madame Giry also has no time for Erik's anger issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers! Here's chapter ten. I hope you all enjoy! :)

Once they arrived in New York City, Meg was slack-jawed as she viewed the landscape around her, nearly coming to a stand-still multiple times as she observed the scenery. It was sunny - which was so very different from that morning - and warm, and though there was some sort of stench, it bothered her none. For the first time during her journey, she forgot of everything wrong, and instead, began to imagine everything right. 

The trio and a community of other French were ushered toward a small set of buildings, almost like a neighborhood, Meg thought. The ground beneath them was dirty, and the trees across the street were few and far between, and looking about her, she recognized none but Erik and her mother. 

Moving away from the tight grasp of Madame Giry, she gravitates closer to Erik, glancing up at him. “Where are we?” She whispers, glancing about them, her forehead scrunched with confusion. 

“The Lower East Side of Manhattan. We have no means of wealth, and the cost of living in this area is small.” He turns to her, now, and cocks an eyebrow, as if amused. “Not grand enough for you?”

“Weren’t you paid some-thousands of francs a month? What do you mean ‘no means of wealth’? And it’s not that . . . I just . . . “ She trails off, and her mother went to her side, and wrapped an arm about her shoulders, as if noticing her distress. “Oh, Maman, this is so very different from the dormitories,” she frets. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and chest as she felt her shame and turmoil mingle in her stomach. She didn’t want to say it aloud, but it made her uncomfortable imagining living in such close quarters with those of the opposite sex. She ponders her time with Erik on the ship, but reason told her there would only be one bed per tenement. And what of others? Could she hope that it would only be them three in a tenement?

“Right this way,” a woman stated in what Meg noted as a bad French accent, quickly waving toward another couple who stood near them after. They were both older, perhaps in their seventies, and the woman was carrying a small, sleeping infant. They seemed weathered and gray, yet Meg also thought she saw a beam of hope in their eyes. After climbing numerous sets of stairs, to the point where Meg felt her ankle throb with pain and pressure, the woman finally said, “Just through this door here.”

Once inside, the blonde was shocked at the bright, vibrant colors that were painted inside. A shocking blue - a lightning hue that she might expect from a dance costume - surrounded her, and from what she could see, the other two rooms. The bedroom was small, holding a decently-sized bed and a window just above it. She moves closer, and upon further inspection, sees a black dresser inside, and a mahogany rocking chair shoved into the corner. The kitchen, adjacent to the bedroom, was tiny, holding only cabinets and a stove.

Meg looked back at the group, and her gaze landed on the couch shoved against the wall, under a large window. The older couple had already lay upon it, clean and dustless, and their hands were clasped tightly together. Her mother sat upon a chair that was gathered around a dining table, and set her cane against the edge of it. 

A few moments later, fussing and then a muffled cry envelope the home. Meg startles glancing over, and sees the older woman whispering gently to the child, running her hand over the child’s small swath of red curls in an effort to comfort. Unfortunately, this was to no avail. 

She didn’t need Erik to explain in order to feel the swarms of nervous and annoyed energy racing through him. She could see it in the way his posture stiffens, his shoulders crunch, and his jaw tightened. He turns around, facing the wall, and Meg ignores this, hurrying toward the woman in order to offer her a blanket she pulled from her bag. 

“Perhaps the child is cold?” Meg asks, holding the blanket out toward the woman, and she takes it graciously, carefully swaddling the small thing in the pastel pink cloth. This seems to sooth the baby, though it continued to fuss until his thumb - Meg thought it rather looked like a boy - traveled to its mouth. Blissful silence filled the room after, and Erik’s shoulders dropped. 

Madame Giry seemed to have fallen asleep the instant she sat in the chair, and hadn’t been bothered by the child’s cries at all. 

“Is it a boy?” Meg asks, and the woman nods, smiling fondly at him. “What’s his name?”

“Robin,” she replies. “His mother’s voice could have healed the world, and something tells me he’s a little songbird, too.”

Questions arose in her head, wondering why the parents, or at least his mother, weren’t traveling with them. However, she bit her tongue. “He’s darling,” Meg swoons, and kneels down beside the woman, gazing down at the boy. “And so handsome in pink!”

“I daresay the color suits him better than I!” She exclaims, chuckling softly as to not disturb Robin. His eyes were wide and open now, gazing up at Meg and the green of his eyes were startling, reminding her of the emeralds that her father had given Maman on her birthday many years ago. The thought of him once again sent pain tumbling through her, but crushed the emotion in her fist by her side. 

“My name is Meg,” the blonde greets cheerfully, forcing a smile, though joy erupted through her at the sight of the couple’s clasped hands and the quiet peace of Robin. “My maman, Isabelle, is the one asleep on the chair.” 

“Is that your husband?” The woman asks, and Meg nods, though her fingers tangle nervously together behind her back. 

“Oui, madame. That’s my husband, Etienne,” the blonde replies, and Erik turns, then, over his left shoulder, only showing the bare, whole side of his face. As the light settled upon his features, the thin, white outline became visible on his forehead and nose, and a shadow was cast across his lips from the mask. Meg prayed that neither would ask. Thankfully, they remained calm. Even when he turned completely, neither seemed startled. 

“Newlyweds, I assume?” She grins down at Meg, and she blushes, her eyes lowering to the babe.

“Yes, I suppose. Everything is rather new, isn’t it?” He replies, before spinning on his heels and walking toward the kitchen, the back of his poet’s shirt untucked and wrinkled. 

“I beg your pardon?” The man says now, almost taken aback, as if offended. Confusion screwed his features, though strangely enough, not the skin of his left cheek. 

“Ignore him,” she says, casting a glare toward the kitchen, to which he fully ignored as he leaned against the cabinets, setting Maman’s bag on the table before him. “I promise he’s not always like this.” 

Behind her, Meg heard her maman snort loudly. 

“Oh, so you’re awake now?” The blonde acknowledges, her eyebrow arched in humor as she turns toward the former ballet mistress. 

“Sheer disrespect can arouse any mother,” she retorts, and Erik grumbles, removing his violin case from the bag. He carefully places it on the table, wrapping it delicately in a blanket to preserve what little warmth was left in the case, before reaching into his pockets and removing his notebook and a black pencil. 

Shocking them all, the older man laughs, his mouth opening to reveal a toothy grin. “I suppose there will never be a dull day with you lot. I’m George, and this is my wife, Fleur.”

“Wonderful to meet you!” Meg responds, rolling to a sitting position to take the pressure off of her foot. 

“As we are, too,” Fleur agrees, glancing down at the red-headed infant in her arms. 

It was simple and small conversation after that, eventually leading to words exchanged between just Maman and Fleur. The sky then slowly began to darken as the afternoon approached, and Meg felt her stomach grumble with hunger. Turning to look over her shoulder, she glimpsed Erik buried into the pages of his work, scribbling words and ideas and sketches. She quietly rose, inching her way over to the kitchen, and made a grab for her mother’s bag. Before she could swipe it, his fingers latch around her wrist, and his eyes sought hers. 

“It wasn’t brought to my knowledge that anything in here belongs to you, Meg,” he says, and she shakes his grip, letting her hand drop down to her side. 

“Didn’t Maman put those croissants from yesterday in the bag? I’m famished,” she explains, gesturing toward the bag again, and he shoves it toward her. She quickly grabs two, hard and wrapped in cloth. She offers one to Erik, who shakes his head and waves her off. 

“Erik, when have you last eaten? You weren’t hungry yesterday, either,” she questions, drawing closer to him, but he freezes, holding his hand out toward her again, as if asking to keep space between them. She stops, her fingers flitting down toward her hand, and back up to land on the bare side of his face. “Are you alright?” She asks softly, lowering her voice so the others wouldn’t hear them. 

“I’m fine, Meg, stop your senseless worrying,” he snaps, and something red and hot plunges into her chest. Did he not understand that if he didn’t eat, he would become sick? How foolish, she thought, for him to drive himself to starvation, when still there was much left to be done! She inhales deeply, trying to calm her nerves, and instead focuses on his own emotions. She remembers that this is the way he processes frustration and pain, and it was nothing against her. At least, a part of her hoped. 

“Erik, please -”

“Please what?” His words were sharp and biting, no higher than a whisper. His eyes were angry, so angry that Meg could have swore she saw them nearly flash crimson. “I said I am not hungry. I’ve neither the patience for you, nor your excruciatingly annoying company. Leave me be.”

Before she could say much more, he stands, as if sensing her need to do so, and swiftly exits the tenement. She heard his quick footsteps, hurrying above them, as he went higher and higher. She thought he may be going to the roof, but soon enough, he went farther than what she could hear. 

Tears sprung to her eyes at his words, all weighing heavily on her, and she turned from the three pairs of curious eyes staring her way as they began to tumble down her cheeks. She felt her mother loom behind her, palms resting on her shoulders before turning the blonde her way. Gentle fingers wiped her tears away, brushing hair behind her ears before pulling her into an embrace. Meg quickly wrapped her arms around her mother, burying her head into the ballet mistress’s shoulder. 

“I don’t understand - “ Meg chokes out, and her mother quickly shushes her, running a hand down the length of her flaxen strands. Her appetite melted away, though her mother forced her to sit and nibble on the croissant. The older couple silently left the main room, which Meg was grateful for, and they closed the bedroom door behind them. 

“Why did he upset you so?” The older woman questions, and Meg brings her palm across her right cheek, collecting the new tears there. 

“It’s stupid. I know what he said isn’t true, but it still hurts hearing harsh words such as his,” Meg tearfully explains, glancing down at the table and the empty cloth. 

“What did he say?” She asks, and behind her question, Meg could tell, was anger. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, bringing her arms around herself, hugging tightly. 

A beat, and then, “Alright. But this isn’t the only thing that’s bothering you, is it?”

“He’s just so frustrating!” Meg exclaims, her arms bursting forth and hands spreading wide. “He’ll be fine one moment, and infuriating the next! I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me, he wasn’t always this way, and there’s good in him, but it’s no excuse! On no grounds does he have the right to treat me this way, ever! Neither does anyone!”

“You’re right, Meg,” her mother agrees, drawing her a shocked look on her daughter’s face. “And I’m surprised to hear that this has upset you so - has there been more going on? When I’m not there?”

“Oh, Maman . . . “ Meg begins, clearing her throat. “I suppose. I thought . . . I thought we’d come to . . . “

Her mother leans forward to capture the blonde’s hands within her own. “I think what is so difficult, right now, is how confused you may be. How can someone act like this? How can someone commit the things he’s done? How can he be a friend one moment, and an enemy the next?”

Meg nods, shrugging. “I think that’s part of it.”

“Dear girl, you have so much kindness in your heart,” the brunette woman commends, standing to bring Meg back into her arms. “It’s not your burden to save him, to heal him. He is the only one that can do that. It’s not your job to carry his guilt, his pain, or his grief.” 

Meg doesn’t reply, only holds her mother tighter. She felt tears gather in her eyes once more, but none fell. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“We have very little money, Maman,” Meg assesses, counting the coins for the third time. “I daresay enough for a few meals - for the three of us combined - for a few weeks.”

“That’s more than enough, for the time being,” she promises, sitting beside her daughter at the table. She was cradling Robin in her arms as the older couple napped in the bedroom. Without a question, the two of them had decided it would be best for the elderly couple to take the bedroom. The child’s cradle was placed in the middle of the room, wooden and small, and aided for the baby to fall into a peaceful rest. He fell asleep quickly in Madame Giry’s arms, however, and Meg could tell how much she enjoyed holding an infant, as if she had missed it. 

“Alright, Maman,” Meg agrees, though silently amended that, perhaps, it would be best for her to find work. Erik certainly wouldn’t be able to work publicly, and she worried for her mother’s health in such conditions. 

It had been hours since Erik had left, and Madame Giry worried aloud every time it seemed as if it were going to rain, though thankfully, it never did. 

Around dinner time, George and Fleur returned from their evening stroll they’d begun nearly an hour before, holding a basket of freshly baked bread. Meg, immediately smelling the fresh aroma the moment they stepped through the doorway, shoved her own stale croissant to the side. 

“It seems as if our neighbor is a talented cook,” Fleur says, grinning as Madame Giry brings Robin to her, exchanging the child with the dinner. “No more than a few pennies!”

Fleur fussed at the baby for a few moments, tucking the fiery-haired infant into his cradle before joining the rest of them at the table, passing around fresh bread. 

“Has you husband returned yet?” Fleur asks, and Meg folds her hands in her lap, flushing as she glances down. 

“I’m afraid not. He can get this way sometimes - I fear he doesn’t adapt to change well, and I’ve only just now discovered this,” Meg explains, nearly stuttering. She realized that their aliases were married - written down, even - but they had no sort of marriage certification to produce. Would they ever need such a thing?

“Oh, Meg, dear,” Fleur says, reaching across the table to grasp the blonde’s hands. “I remember when George and I were first married. It certainly wasn’t by choice - an arrangement our parents had long before I’d even considered marriage. We certainly didn’t get along at first. I shoved him into a river one time, simply because he took offense to my color of dress!”

“Now that is not what happened, my dear,” George cut in, but Fleur shot a look to him, and grinned, as if amused. 

“That is absolutely what happened. But besides that, we came to bond over the opera. And how quickly I fell for him when he took me, every Friday evening. The way he spoke of music, it was as if he were speaking of the heart itself.” 

Meg’s heart swelled at her words. She’d craved independence, craved the prospect of choosing her future instead of being tied to another, but how she’d seen love affect so many others! It enthralled her, the way Christine spoke of Raoul (even how she’d spoken of her angel), and how Fleur spoke of her husband just now. What she would give, Meg thought, to make a connection such as that. 

“That’s beautiful,” Meg replies, and Fleur grasps her hands tighter, a kind and knowing look gleaming in her eyes. 

“Though I don’t know much of you or your marriage, I can see you care for him, Meg.” She nearly raised offense, nearly denying it, but knew it was love she spoke of. Meg certainly didn’t love him - sometimes she wished she could hate him - but she’d grown to care for that ornery man, whether she’d admit or not. She remembered that night he’d taken her beneath the stars, coaxed the soprano from her throat, and set off her dream of becoming a star. At that, she felt a swirling of emotions in her stomach, something deeply rooted in affection, and suddenly, forgiveness seemed more attainable than it had a few moments ago. “Perhaps you should seek him out. He doesn’t seem like the type to talk of his emotions, but for you, he must learn how.”

“He’s just . . . He’s been through so much . . .” Meg attempts to explain, but Fleur waves her off, and she feels her mother gently grasp her shoulder in a comforting manner. “It might be better off just leaving him be.” 

After a beat of silence, Fleur detracts her hands from Meg’s and gathers a few croissants in the basket before covering the top with the long, blue cloth, effectively trapping the heat within. “Go find him, Meg.”

“I -” She begins, but Madame Giry cuts in, prompting Meg to turn slightly toward her. 

“Meg, perhaps it would be better to stay behind -”

“Oh, nonsense! If he is still high above on the roof, it will be a romantic sight. Some time to get away from us old loonies,” George replies, and Meg saw her mother’s eye twitch. 

She wanted to say no, to stay behind, but a part of her knew that somewhere in those actions would be the right one. And besides - it was cold outside, and the longer he stayed atop the roof, the more of a chance he could catch a cold. 

“It’s alright, Maman. I’ll just go up to bring him back,” she promises quickly, before her mother could admonish anyone. “Only a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry, dear; we won’t be counting,” Fleur winks, and Meg blushes as she darts out of the door, a heavier coat about her newly-changed clothes, hugging her form, as she dashed up the stairs, the basket of bread in hand. 

The building was nearly seven stories high, and after a quick skim, saw they were placed on the fifth floor. Those it was only two flights of stairs, they still winded Meg, especially as she climbed higher. It was foggy and a chill stung the air, but still, she sought out the man who’d said such horrible words to her. A heavy thought came to her realization, that they would most likely never be able to live harmoniously. Especially if her career was on the line - would he ever take it from her if he was cross with her?

If that be the case, then perhaps she should run while she still could. 

She came upon the roof, finally, and saw Erik on the edge, sat on the concrete, his legs dangling as he glanced down at his notebook. She thought she spotted a sketched image of Christine, but he’d heard her the moment she’d stepped onto the roof.

“I thought I’d made it plenty clear I wanted solitude, Miss Giry,” he spits, and she recoils, fisting her free hand before stepping forward again. 

“I once told you I would not stand for your insults, and that still stands now. Why do you attack me in such ways?” She asks, controlling her temper as she keeps distance between them both. 

He stays quiet, and Meg spots his finger gently grazing the cover of the notebook, as if it were something precious, something to be kept close and treasured. She loomed closer, stepping until she was directly behind him, and when he didn't flinch or lash out, she carefully sits beside him. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, recoiling away from her slightly as his eyes turn to meet hers. 

“Sitting beside you,” she says, kicking her feet in front of her and glancing down. She gulps at the distance from herself to the ground, but shoves the fear away. “I was forced to come. Fleur believed all of our troubles would be solved with a romantic date on the roof.” 

“How thoughtful,” he says, tasting the words as if they were something poisonous. 

“Besides that, I have some croissants. You really should eat - we can’t afford for any of us to be sick, now.” A beat, and then, “And you should really come back soon. Maman is worried about you - every time the sky got dark, she’d worry if you’d be caught in a storm.”

“It’s foolish to worry for me,” he grunts, setting his notebook off to the side and breaking their gaze, looking out toward the city. “If I were to die, you both would be free. Perhaps it would be for the best.”

Meg’s mind reeled, pushing herself closer to him. He inched away, but in her panicked flurry, her fingers sought his arm, as if to keep him anchored to herself. “You can’t believe that, Erik. That’s a horrible thing to think.” 

He grunts again, ripping his arm away from her, and this time, Meg doesn’t reach back out. Tears fill her eyes again, more out of frustration than anything. He glances toward her, then, his eyes filling with awkwardness - and perhaps fear - at her tears, and she tries to push them away. 

“I’ve made you cry,” he says, not as a question, but as a statement. Meg wipes a hand across her cheek, and nearly rolls her eyes. 

“Not the first time, you cruel man. You said horrible things to me, and now you say horrible things of yourself. Do you truly care so little about your relationships, or of any connections in this life? Do you truly care so little of yourself?” She asks rapidly, her eyes turning back to his. 

“No, no tears for my sake. I will not accept your pity,” he admonishes, holding a palm toward her, but she ignores it. 

“I can’t even tell if I pity you! Half the time, I feel as if I hate you, or that I’m frightened of you,” she admits, and he looks away, back toward the city. 

“As you should,” he murmurs, and she shakes her head wildly. 

“No, you stupid man! That’s not the point - you can love. You can love so incredibly deeply, let it consume you whole, and yet you can barely look at yourself in the mirror, barely live with yourself. And I know it’s not just from your face. How can you live a half-life? And then to the people who do grow to care for you, you take out your anger and loneliness on them.” She wanted to stop, but all the emotion she’d kept bottled up from him was inflamed and spewed from her like fire.

His mind reeled, surprised at her admission. She cared for him? She supposed it was her who’d wanted to engage in a friendship, but after his words . . . how could she still want that? And why couldn’t she just leave him alone when he wanted to be?

“Leave me be, Meg,” he says again, but this time, softer. 

“No! I will not! How lonely you’ve been, even with my mother as a companion. I won’t leave you be, but I will, Erik, if you continue to treat me with such cruel intention. I am not some doll that will crack and fall apart at a man’s words, but I will not stand for something so destructive in my life. Those words you said earlier, though born from some emotion I don’t understand, were not okay.” He had grown still, and Meg worried his rigidness was from anger. “We will fight, Erik, but we can’t like that. Never like that, again.” 

Still silence from him, and Meg’s gaze tore from him to the city out from them, the sun slowly began to sink down toward the rich pinks and oranges of the horizon. It slowly peaked out, bright and bronzed, and warmth slid across Meg’s cheeks and arms. 

“So little time you’ve known me, and yet you . . . you understand me better than most,” he whispers, and her gaze turns to his. Mismatched eyes flicked to hers, and unquelled emotion shown behind them. “Tell me, Meg, do you know me better than I know myself?”

“Surely not,” she replies, placing her hands on either side of her, the height now beginning to make her dizzy and almost queasy. “I don’t think we can ever truly know ourselves, though we might try.”

With a shaky hand, she slid her hand closer to his, so the outside of her pinky finger skimmed his. He gasped at the contact, his finger instinctively arching before flattening again, his cold, despite the sun. She smiled gently at him, and guilt roiled through his chest at the redness of her eyes. 

“What I said . . . What I said earlier . . . It wasn’t true. You must know it isn’t true,” he says, drawing his hands into his lap as they began to shake. 

“It’s alright, Erik. I know,” she replies, and then stands, the basket of bread in her left hand as she beckons him with her right, holding her palm out to him. 

“I’m rather anxious to get back. Are you ready to go?” She questions. He stands, then, and she retracts her palm. 

“I suppose,” he replies, the notebook appearing smaller in his hand as his palm and fingers nearly engulfed the entire object. Something strange rose in Meg at the sight, but was as fleeting as it was coming. 

They slowly made their way down, Meg leading the way, and as they entered the tenement, Madame Giry seemed nearly shocked that he was accompanied by Meg, though the smile of Fleur’s face spoke more volumes than anything else in the room. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was later that night, nearly at midnight, when Meg awoke to a strange sound. Her mother was asleep on the couch above her, and Erik had sprawled out on top of the dining room table, though his height didn’t do him much favors there. He now sat in a chair, his head bent forward, and Meg hated the mask harshly then, for it glowed in the darkness something monstrous. 

She rose from the floor, annoyed at the intrusion, but then heard a rattle at the doorknob. She quickly fled to the window, carefully moving the blinds away from the side. Her eyes went wide at the sight. 

A tall man, obscured with the night and black clothing, tried their door many times, but to no avail. He then suddenly turned toward her, and with a gasp, she snapped it shut. Her mother was still asleep, so she ran over to Erik, shaking his shoulders. He startled awake, and his eyes gazed up at her wildly, a loose curl of black hair obscuring his vision. 

“Meg, what the devil-”

“There’s someone outside,” she whispers, her eyes wide and terrified, and Erik quickly stands, Meg looming close behind. The doorknob eventually stops jiggling, and Erik immediately tears toward the door, flinging it open. 

His large frame didn’t offer Meg much of a view, but only after moving his arm aside did she see that no one was there. 

“Stay here. If you see someone, scream,” he orders before tearing off into the dark.

“Erik!” She whispers harshly, following him out the door. She feels pairs of eyes on her almost immediately though, and she moves back inside, closing the door behind her. Her mother had awakened then, in confusion, and Meg told her to rest again, that everything was alright. She wandered over to the chair that Erik had slept in, and waited for him, fear ripping her brain and nerves to pieces. Who was that? Was that the same man - people - that had targeted them on the ship? Was he the man they’d seen in line earlier that day?

After a while, Meg’s eyes had begun to droop. Only when she had begun to drift did the door swing back open, and she flinched awake.

“Did you find him?” She whispers, and he shakes his head, and she nearly moans with fear. “What happens next?”

“Go back to sleep, Meg,” he says, standing before her, towering several feet over her sitting form. 

“Sleep? How? Not after that!” She exclaims quietly, but he shakes his head. 

“You can, and you will, Meg. Now go back on off to sleep - whoever that was is gone, and won’t come back for the rest of the night,” he promises. 

She was still disbelieving of him, but took the instruction anyway, standing before moving away, back toward her mother and laying across the floor. She fell asleep, then, quickly after, and he moved his chair closer, then, to the two and the door. 

His gaze caught on her features, serene and asleep, and his mind reeled back to the words she’d said today. How astute this little blonde was - though he supposed she’d picked up on many of his mannerisms from their forced time together, as he had with her. Perhaps he, too, was growing to care for the feisty ballerina. 

He glanced down at his ring, the black onyx gleaming back up at him in the darkness, and Erik twisted it about his finger. His thoughts were jumbled now, lots of nonsense that he wished he could keep out of his head, but continued to rise and rise in volume until he closed his eyes tightly, squeezing his hands into fists, hard enough for his fingers to draw blood at the bottoms of his palms. 

His eyes sought Meg’s face again, and then the sleeping form of Madame Giry, and he fought for control. 

There he sat until morning, watching the door, until early morning, when exhaustion finally got the better of him, and he drooped forward in drowsiness. 

A letter was pushed under the door sometime after that, before anyone had awoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed. Let me know your thoughts! :)


	11. chapter eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik reveals some of his past to Meg after the mysterious letter is slipped under their door. She also explores more ways in which they can advance their lives, but something offers a major setback. Also, featuring sunburnt Erik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is having a wonderful day or night or whenever this chapter reaches you! As I'm sure some of you noticed, I changed my username to ofserien, just so it's the same as my tumblr. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Thank you so much for reading :). (also, just a note, this chapter limit will most likely be increasing, and I'll change it at some point in the next few months when I have a better idea of how many more chapters there will be.)

Meg awoke to tightness and soreness in her foot. Bringing her knee up to her chest, she hisses as she gingerly prods the skin underneath her heel, and felt dried, scabbed blood there. She groans softly, pressing herself up with her hands into a sitting position, and bending her leg in front of her. Glancing over, she saw the couch empty and the blanket already folded, laying neatly atop the pillow at the edge of the couch. 

“Is your foot bothering you?” She hears Fleur say behind her, and Meg turns to look over her shoulder and the older woman. 

“A bit,” she lies, not wanting to create a nuisance of herself. “It’s bearable.”

“Don’t you lie for my sake,” she says, wagging a finger at Meg before grabbing her bag and pulling a smaller, plastic thing from within its depths. “I was a nurse for much of my career. You are in the best of hands.” 

“Oh, Fleur, thank you so much, but it’s truly alright,” she says. “I don’t want to be a bother.” 

“Don’t be silly, dear. Aren’t you a dancer?” She questions, but just as Meg is opening her mouth to reply, she cuts her off. “It’s important you take great care of your feet. It’s your most important asset in your craft.”

“Thank you,” Meg replies simply, tangling her fingers together in her lap. She hears the door open behind her, and she turns once more, almost surprised to see Erik stroll through the door and toward the kitchen.

“Oh, wonderful that you’re here, Etienne! My fingers are much too shaky for this. Perhaps you could help?” Fleur questions, winking at the blonde as Meg darts back around, swallowing deeply and trying to even her breath. Must he always appear at times such as this? 

“I’m quite busy, Madame. Something came up-“ he started, but Fleur waved his excuse off. 

“Unless it is a matter of life and death,” she begins, and Erik cuts in with saying, “it most certainly is.” She continues with, “your poor wife is in need of a new change of bandages.”

“Fleur, it’s alright, don’t bother him. I can wrap them myself,” she says, sitting up straighter. She watches Erik from the corner of her eye glance between her and the door, and then he comes slightly forward. 

“Only God knows you’d hurt yourself further,” he says, grabbing the materials from Fleur, and in only a few paces, stood before her.

“You assume I’ve never injured myself before? I am a dancer, after all. I’ve had many ankle injuries,” she replies, watching his looming figure as he bent down in front of her, rolling forward onto his knees. 

“You’re simply lucky you’ve had your mother around after all of your falls. I’ve seen quite the nasty trips from a few of your rehearsals - I suppose gracefulness doesn’t translate well into practice?” He teases, lifting her foot to rest on his knee. A palm curved around her calf as he did so, and she felt heat licking the bottom of her spine. 

“You’re the lucky one, for being let off the hook for your crude jokes,” she grins, chuckling. “And I am incredibly graceful when I need to be, or need I remind you of my previous title of lead ballerina?”

Fleur has sat on the couch next to them, and showed Erik how to trap the cotton over the wound, and wrap her foot. After a brief and awkward moment of hesitation, Erik pulled the length of her dress up to her knees, bunching it there. His fingers skimmed over the scars from deep blisters and bruises from her pointe shoes, and Meg nearly yanked her foot back from the tickling contact he’d initiated. She could see his head turning, equal with thought and emotion, but she wasn’t sure of what. 

“Does it hurt?” He questions in a low voice, as if he didn’t want Fleur to hear his concern, and lowered her foot to the floor. 

“Not nearly as much as before,” she answers, honest this time, and his eyes lifted to find hers, which had been aimed at the crown of his head as he had been bent over. As the sun streamed through the room, his pale blue eye glistened, and the near black one seemed to gleam lightly. The morning glow made him seem softer, gentler, and something strange, something affectionate - almost painful - twisted inside of Meg. 

“Help her onto the couch. It would be wise to prop her foot up,” Fleur suggests, moving to stack the pillow on the edge of the couch. She makes her way towards the bedroom, and as she disappears from view, Erik extends an arm out to Meg. 

“Why didn’t you say anything last night? It was foolish of you to stay quiet,” he chastises, and Meg bats his hand away after he helps her onto the cushions. “The longer you’re injured, the longer you stay off of your feet.”

“I was more worried for you,” she admits, looking back up at him. “Maman was worried as well. And the way you spoke last night . . . you frightened me so.” She glanced around, as if looking for someone, and before he could respond, she continues, “Where is Maman?” 

“That’s what I came in here for, Meg. Your mother -”

“A few more pillows, my dear! That should do the trick!” Fleur says, handing Erik the pillows. He clenches his fist, frustrated at the interruption, but Meg shoots him a withering glare before he has the ability to say anything. 

“Thank you, Fleur,” Meg says, smiling almost shyly up at the woman. That same guilt from before ebbed into her, but she pushed it away at the woman’s face. She looked as if she genuinely enjoyed helping Meg and easing her pain, and the blonde’s heart swelled. 

“Of course, dear. You remind me so much of my daughter,” she says, and Meg’s chest clogs at the sight of tears filling the older woman’s eyes. 

“Oh, Fleur, I -” she begins, but she’s waved off. 

“Don’t fret for my sake, Meg. I’ll leave you two kids alone and go find my husband. Lord knows what sort of mischief he’s gotten himself caught into now,” she chuckles, offering them a smile. “I’ll see you two later. And Meg, please, dear, rest your foot,” she says, pointing a finger at the blonde before exiting the tenement.

“You were saying something about my mother? Is she alright?” Meg asks frantically as Erik moves to sit on the open cushion of the couch, next to Meg’s injured foot. 

“She’s fine, Meg, calm down,” he reassures, though it annoyed Meg more than anything. Why was he always telling her to calm down when she emotionally responded in an appropriate manner? 

She let’s the comment brush off of her. “Did something happen?”

“At some point last night, a letter was slipped under the door,” he explains, as Meg’s eyes widen, her hands grasping the arm rest behind her so she could sit straighter up.

“It was the same man as last night! The one by the door, I bet,” Meg exclaims, and he nods his head in agreement. 

“I think it’s easy to jump to the conclusion that we’re also dealing with multiple people here,” he suggests, and Meg glances outside of the window, paranoia creeping into her nerves as she wondered if whoever this strange group was was watching them now. 

“We’ve gotten two names so far,” she says, looking back down at her fingers. “Just first names - nothing substantial.” Eyes flick up to his. “What was in the letter?”

He suddenly becomes uncomfortable, as he shifts away from her, no longer meeting her gaze. “It led your mother and I to the police department this morning.”

“But why? That seems so strange. Why lead you to a place where you could easily turn them in?” Realization dawns on her at words he’d said before. That he’d done horrible, horrible things in his life. 

“It was a threat,” he murmurs, folding his hands in his lap and leaning back against the couch. “To expose me.”

“Oh,” she responds, unsure of what to say. “Is it someone from your past? And why do they want to expose you? How would they benefit from it?”

“I haven’t a clue, beyond that they want something valuable.” 

But why wouldn’t they offer something right away? Why threaten him - all three of them - and not want for something? Meg had read novels of men killing simply for the game of it. Is that what was going on here? But no - they’d been given warnings. 

“Do they want money? Information?” The blonde lists off, racking her brain. What sort of information would they have?

“Or you,” he deadpans, and Meg freezes, her arms slowly coiling around her abdomen, as if to protect herself.

“What?” Her voice was shaky, and trembled with fervent emotion. “What do you mean?” 

He opened his mouth, as if he were about to respond, but closed it again in hesitation. “I don’t want to frighten you any more than what you already are.”

“Ignorance frightens me more,” she argues. 

“Meg, please,” he says, stressing her name. “This is a part of my past. I don’t want you becoming involved, nor knowing anything of my horrid deeds.” 

She was dumbstruck. “Erik . . . what do mean? What were you involved in?”

“I . . . a long time ago, in Persia, there was a young girl offered to me . . .” He shakes his head, looking away in shame. Her heart beats quickly, and fingers slide upwards to protectively cup the front of her neck. Perhaps she should be afraid of him. 

“Erik, did you . . .” She gulps, fighting to keep her voice even. “Did you . . . take . . . her?”

“No, but I’m certain I aided in her demise,” he whispers, and though relief rushes through her, so did questions. He was indirectly involved with her death. Is that what happens when you turn them away? 

“Is that what you think this group is? Whatever that was in Persia?” She asks, and he nods, still facing away from her. 

Meg reaches forwards, gently taking a stiff hand in hers. “Thank you for telling me, Erik.”

He scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “Tell me this . . . did any of that truly comfort you? Learning that your protector is also capable of horrible things?”

“I’m not quite certain as to why you view that deed as being horrible, Erik, unless you killed her with your own hand. You didn’t force yourself on her. That was the right thing to do,” she reassures, holding his hand tightly. “And you made a promise to me and my mother to keep us safe, and I believe your sincerity.” A beat, and then, “I’m learning to trust you.” 

“I’m a liar. My entire life is a web of lies, and I’m so far tangled that I don’t even know who I am.” 

“That’s okay. Maman and I don’t expect to be you to be perfect, Erik,” she reassures. She wonders if he’s going to rip away from her and seek solace in solitude. “And maybe you are a liar, but you’ve never lied to me. And I think that’s worth something.” 

He doesn’t respond, only sags forward, slouching toward his lap. In a rush of affection, Meg was tempted to sweep him into her arms and hold him until he found the strength to lift his shoulders again, but she refrained from doing so. Instead, she held his hand tightly, and his fingers, though stiff, grew responsive and squeezed hers equally in return, as if seeking comfort. 

The band of his ring pressed into her hand, and involuntarily, she remembered that ring pressed against her calf, her foot, her wrist . . . She only allows herself to wonder for a few moments what it would feel like to have it rest against her sides, her thighs, her cheeks, before cringing away from it. 

It was then that Madame Giry strolled through the door, and Meg and Erik jump apart - more so him, as he lunged off the couch and crossed the room in many steps. As if to remind herself, she reaches down and lightly traces the rosary in her pocket. 

“Did you find anything, Maman?” She asks, turning back around and attempting to stop the blood rushing to her face. 

“I’m afraid nothing of consequence. How is your foot fairing, ma choupette?” She says, coming over and sitting where Erik had just sat. 

“It’s feeling much better with these new wrappings,” she says, and her mother gently pats her knee. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replies, and grins at Meg, who returns the smile with equal fervor. “Oh, how I love you, my sweet.”

“I love you too, Maman,” she says, reaching out to grab her mother’s hands. She comes around to stand before Meg, folding the girl into her side, and running a hand down her hair, smoothing the tangles that had caught the night before. 

The dancer’s eyes open to find Erik’s, staring back at her, though more so at the two of them together. He seemed sad, and his fingers fumbled together in front of him on the table as he sat, twisting the ring about his finger. He then turned once his eyes flickered to hers, and raised a fist to rest his cheek against, effectively turned away from her. 

She frowned at the sight, her heart twisting for him before turning her face into her mother and closing her eyes. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“But Maman, I must,” the blonde argues, leaning across the table toward her mother. George and Fleur had gone out to chat with the neighbors while Robin lay perched happily in Madame Giry’s arms. She wasn’t completely sure where Erik was, but she supposed he was on the roof, somewhere bright where he could draw and be out of sight and, hopefully, warm. 

“No, Meg. The working conditions here are awful. We’ll simply have to find another way to raise funds,” she explains, but Meg shakes her head vehemently. 

“Maman, I am certainly not allowing you to work, and we both know that Erik cannot work in a public place. My foot is already beginning to feel better - I should be fine to work in a few days. This is for the best,” she promises, speaking passionately. “And it will only be for a little while, until Erik finishes his plans.”

“You truly believe in his work, so strongly so?” Her mother questions. 

She didn’t want to admit that she hadn’t seen the full extent of his ideas, but she knew whatever was on those papers, from what little she’d seen, was incredible. “His plans are genius, mother. And with music? He’ll take New York City by storm. And we’ll live just like we’ve always wanted to, like what papa wanted for us.” 

“Oh, my darling girl. You know your father would give you the world if he could, right?” She says, and Meg nods, giving her mother a small smile. 

“The world and more, for both of us,” she agrees. A chuckle then escapes her. “Perhaps don’t tell him that I’m fake married to the Opera Ghost, though.”

“What do you mean? That’s the first thing I’ll tell him,” the ballet mistress teases, and Meg laughs, forgetting of their prior argument. 

“How I miss him so,” she whispers, dropping her eyes in melancholy as memories of her father rose in her. She hadn’t seen for years now, and his visits were so rare that she was surprised she even remembered his face. The picture of him still sat in her bag, as Meg was too wary of removing the portrait, as remembering the distance between them was painful. 

“Yet he still loves you so, and will forever,” her mother promises, and Meg nods, blinking away the tears in her eyes and trying to smile once again. 

“I’m sorry. We were laughing and now I’m completely ruining the moment. How little joy we’ve had, and now I’ve spoiled these few precious moments,” she murmurs, and her mother leans forward to capture her hands. 

“You haven’t ruined a thing, ma choupette. Every moment with you is precious, and every day I spend with you is joyful,” she says, and Meg could have cried then. Her mother was affectionate, but never to this extent. How she’d craved her praise and kind words that were so rarely given. She held them close to her and buried them in her heart. 

“And because every moment with you is precious, you will not be working in a common, dirty factory, Meg.”

She groans, pulling away. “Maman, it’s the only way.” 

“I agree with the Madame - you will not be working in a filthy factory, Meg,” Erik says as he strolls through the door, very much red and very much sunburnt. 

“It is my decision, and we all know I am the only one capable of doing so,” she says. Her eyes flick up to Erik’s figure, and take in his discomfort from his burns. 

“Foolish boy. You haven’t seen the sun in years and yet you roll around in it for hours!” Her mother chastises, pulling Erik toward the couch. 

“You forget of my time spent in the Italian sun.” 

“I think we’d both like to forget your time in Italy. Meg, grab your lotions,” she instructs, and the ballerina hurries toward her bag. 

“I will not be smelling of roses and lavender and whatever else those cursed creams smell of!” He exclaims, and the Madame pins him with a withering glare. 

“You will smell like vanilla, or you will peel until you are nothing but bones,” she warns, and he rolls his eyes, leaning back against the couch. He hisses as his clothed back meets friction, and he bends forward once more, resting elbows on his knees. 

“You even burned through your clothes too,” she admonishes, pulling back his collar to see crimson spread across his chest, shoulders and upper back. 

“Here, Maman,” she says, handing them over to her. She sits beside her mother and casts her gaze away from Erik as he unbuttons his shirt, tightly fitting though it already was. Her mother helps peel the layers away from his skin as he hisses when the cloth rubs against his ravaged skin. He was shirtless, then, and through brief, accidental glances, Meg saw broad shoulders and muscle, though he was rather lean. Light hair, nearly blonde, dusted his chest, though it wasn’t as plentiful as she knew most men’s to be. 

It was then Robin began to cry, and Madame Giry hurried up from where she’d perched him in his cradle, and shushed him in her arms. She eventually took him outside, trying to calm him there and find his grandmother. 

Meg stared at the floor awkwardly, and Erik gazed at the wall before him, obviously uncomfortable. After many moments he grabbed one of the lotions in his hands and poured the sweet-smelling salve onto his palm. 

“Absolutely sickening. I don’t know how you women apply this everywhere,” he says, rubbing it against his left shoulder, reaching as far as he could to layer it on his back. 

“I think it smells rather nice, though I suppose you must prefer the mustiness and odor of living beneath an opera house,” she teases, and he huffs at her. 

“You lie - it smelled perfectly fine down there.”

“You practically lived in the sewers,” she argues, and he rolls his eyes. He struggles to reach behind his shoulders and around his neck, and Meg could have died after she asked if he needed help. 

“No,” he says. 

“Erik, just let me. There’s no reason to act childish.” She adds a generous amount of lotion onto her hands and, after hesitating, climbs behind him on the couch and smooths it over his back. 

There were tattoos littering the skin of his back and his arms, and her eyes widened, never having seen something such as them before. She was tempted to ask of their origin, and what they meant, but instead bit her tongue. 

It was an odd feeling, somewhere between pleasure and discomfort, but Meg’s hands were gentle in their caresses. Her hands nearly shook the longer she stayed behind him, which he detected, but decided it was nothing more than her aversion to touching him. He wanted to flinch away, wanted to fling himself across the room. He wanted to be touched - oh, how he longed to be touched - but he kept imagining Christine’s hands on him. 

“Oh, Erik, you burnt your scalp too,” she says, and his eyes flutter closed as her fingers run through his hair, pulling his curls aside so she could gauge the extent of the burns there. 

Suddenly all he could think of was Meg and her fingers as they continued to brush through his hair, and at last she sighed, dropping her hands. He was almost disappointed at the loss of her touch. 

“I’m not sure what to do of your scalp. I’ve never burned there - I always wore hats during the summers,” she says. “Are . . . are you burnt anywhere else?” 

“My face,” he murmurs, and she comes around in front of him, and he looks away as she kneels. 

“I won’t touch you here if you aren’t comfortable,” she says. “And . . . your face doesn’t actually look that burnt, from here.”

“It’s . . . on the other side of my face,” he says quietly, and her heart leaps at the thought of the pain of the mask rubbing against sunburnt skin. She nearly cringes at the phantom sensation, and without thinking, she reaches toward it. 

His fingers wrap around her wrist, and she gasps as his face looms close to hers. 

“I am so sorry, Erik. I forgot. It just seemed like it hurt - “

“And what? Are you going to kiss it better?” He snarls. “Don’t you ever touch my mask, Giry.”

“Kiss it better . . . what?” She shakes his comment off. “I’m sorry, Erik. I promise I won’t ever touch it again.” 

Her wrist was tight in his grip, and Meg worried it would leave bruises. Cold eyes stared into hers, locked their stares, and she shivered. His fingers tightened around the delicate bone structure, and she gasped as pain ebbed through her arm. He pulls away, suddenly, and looks down at his hand, as if in shock. 

He lunges upwards in a quick range of motion, knocking Meg backward, and makes a path toward the bedroom, and she is quick to make a grab at the lotion. 

“At least take this with you and put it on yourself. I can’t imagine how sensitive the skin on that side is,” she murmurs, holding it to him. 

He whirls around on her, full of fury, and she backs up a few steps in fear. “Giry, if you say -” he yells, but backs up, the fear in her eyes freezing him to the spot. His features soften - and Meg swears his mask does too - and he carefully takes the lotion from her outstretched hand. 

“Thank you,” he says, quieter now. “I . . . I need to be alone right now.”

“I understand,” she replies, and tries her best to form a small smile on her face, though all it does is look pained and tortured. It courses guilt through Erik’s veins as he turns to enter the bedroom. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“The shoe factory will have to do,” Meg decides, glancing down at the stray sheet of paper Fleur had given her mother. She stood next to the tall woman, her head level with her shoulder, and analysed the flyer. 

“Only if you are certain, Meg,” Madame Giry says, handing the paper to her. Meg gingerly takes it, her eyes scanning the descriptions, and nods. 

“The pay isn’t high, but we were expecting that. This is better than nothing,” she affirms, folding the paper in two and shoving it into her pocket, next to the crimson rosary. 

“And your foot?” She questions, looking at Meg sternly. 

“Getting better each day - I daresay it’s nearly healed and is no more than a scab,” she says, testing out the limb by leaning against it. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like pressing against a bruise, but it was manageable and brought little to no pain. 

“Have you found an open dance studio yet?” Meg asks, and Madame Giry shakes her head no, and the blonde, now crestfallen, sinks into the couch. Her mother sits beside her, laying a hand atop the dancer’s.

“We’ll do what we must until then. I know there’s little room in here, but stretching may be all you can accomplish right now,” her mother says gently, and Meg nods, bringing her legs to cross in front of her on the couch. 

“I’ll grab some lunch. Perhaps we can eat outside today,” she says, and Meg nods, grinning up at her and then glancing out the window. The sun was brilliant that day, shining harshly on New York City and wherever else the clouds had disappeared from. Her thoughts drifted to Erik, wondering how he was failing on the roof, and winced at the memory of his burns. Hopefully, he was staying well in the shade.

“Would you grab some water? There’s a glass of it behind the chair,” her mother asks, and Meg hurries over, grasping one of the bottles in her hands and following her mother out the door. They laid the blanket down, setting their meal on the floor, and Meg happily feasted in the croissants and berries. 

“It’s so incredibly different here. It’s not nearly as green as Europe, yet everything seems alive and loud here,” Meg observes, pouring herself a cup of water. 

“As opposed to Paris?” Her mother questions, and Meg shrugs, tearing the end of a croissant off to pop into her mouth. “I’ll always prefer Paris in my mind, but there’s something here that isn’t anywhere else. I feel tied here already, though we haven’t been here long.” 

Before Meg could reply, the newspaper was thrown at their porch, and the blonde reached for the roll of paper as the ballet mistress dropped two small coins to the boy. 

“Thanks, ma’am! Have a wonderful day!” He called, picking them up and running toward the next tenement. 

Meg’s breath stopped as she read the headlines, a hand crawling up to cover her chest. Could it be the same? It seemed plausible, but against all odds, Meg did wish. 

“Maman,” she begins, turning the paper towards her. “Look.” 

On the front of the paper read ‘Two More Victims Claimed By East End Ripper’ and ‘The horror in Whitechapel grows’. Her mother’s eyes widened, though eventually narrowed once more and stared at the words accusingly. 

“This is news based in London - there is no such Whitechapel here. Why spread news from the other side of the world?”

“They suspect he’s traveled - oh, Maman, what is this is the same man that’s been stalking us? Surely we can’t go to the police station - not with a fugitive we’ve been smuggling.”

“What’s going on?” A voice says behind them, and they turn, only to find the grim face of Fleur holding Robin staring down at them. 

“Meg, go fetch Erik and then go inside at once,” her mother instructs, and the blonde reels. 

“Maman, it may be better if he stays up there -“

“No ‘buts’, Marguerite. You will do as I say. Now go get him, and be down before the next minute is up,” she orders, before turning towards the shocked betrayal of Fleur. 

Meg bounces up, hurrying up the stairs, ignoring the dull pain in her foot as she runs. Once reaching the roof, she finds Erik on the side once more, feet dangling, scribbling and sketching in his notebook. He wore a wide-brimmed hat - George had given him one that morning - and had shucked off all of his outer layers of clothes, now only in a poet’s shirt, arms rolled to mid-forearm, and bare feet. 

“Erik,” she says, announcing herself, and he turns to her, a guarded look in his gaze. However, he must have seen worry and horror from what had just occurred merely seconds ago, and he sets his notebook to the side, spinning to face the young woman. 

“Has something happened?” He questions, and she nods, stepping closer to his sitting figure. 

“We have to go back immediately. Maman sent me up,” she explains hurriedly, running forward to grab his shoes and coat. 

“Meg, explain what’s happening at once!” He demands, grabbing her shoulders to spin her around, notebook and pencil locked between his pointer and middle finger. 

“Fleur knows. Fleur knows we’ve been lying, and you aren’t who we’ve led her to believe,” she admits. “Oh, Erik, it’s my fault! I was speaking freely - I truly didn’t know she was back so soon!” 

He wanted to yell at her, to shake her, to blame her for everything that was about to come. She shrunk back from his gaze, though he still held onto her shoulders. Instead of pouring everything he was feeling into her, he instead bottled in away. There was so much regret in her eyes, and it choked him, killing any poisonous words that would spill from his mouth. It wasn’t on purpose, he told himself, though his mind warred against him. She doesn’t want him killed, she doesn’t want him in jail, she doesn’t want him hurt. He repeated it in his mind, over and over, even as she grabbed the inside of his elbow and rushed him down the stairs. 

“I’m so sorry,” Meg whispers, her eyes filling with tears. 

He nearly wanted to tell her it was okay. That he wasn’t angry - though he was, in a different way that he’s never experienced before - and wasn’t upset, but he stayed quiet, unable to create any words. 

Upon entering, Fleur held the newspaper in her hands, sitting at the table with her mother, and her face was redder than Erik’s burnt one. She turned to stare at the couple as they approached, and Meg knew that her mother must have explained enough to warrant such betrayal and coldness in her eyes as she viewed Erik. The blonde felt strangely protective of him, wanting to explain their reasoning for taking him abroad, but even she knew there was no sane excuse to excuse helping him escape instead of turning him in. Even she’d thought that - and still did, sometimes - at first. 

“Fleur, I -“ Meg begins, but she cuts her off, raising a shaking hand. 

“Don’t you dare say a word of defense for him. It’s either all from him, or none at all.” She inhaled heavily, anger lighting in her eyes at the blonde. “You seemed like such a sweet girl. What kind of evil hides itself in your soul in order to help this kind of monster?” 

“Do not say such things about my daughter when you know nothing of her part in this!” Madame Giry exclaims. Erik exhales, glancing between the two Girys before placing the notebook on the side table. 

Tears clouded her eyes once more, and Erik pushed her back as Meg stepped forward, a hand against her stomach. She gazes up at him, and he shakes his head, telling her to stay. He takes the coat and shoes from her hands, setting them down on the couch. Slowly, he approaches the seated women, lowering himself next to Madame Giry, and Meg advances towards his other side, though her mother gestures for her to sit beside her. 

“I’ll tell you everything,” he promises, “but you must swear never to tell of Meg’s and Antoinette's part in all of this.” 

“I will promise to no such thing,” she hisses, and Erik slams his hand against the table. The Madame raps his leg with her cane, grabbing his shoulder, and he yanks it from her grip, though he looks a considerable amount more reserved. 

“Tell me everything. I will decide for myself, though be aware I am much more willing to show your daughter mercy than any of you two.” 

“That is all we ask,” Madame Giry states. Meg clutches her hands in her lap, curling them tightly together. Her legs bounces up and down anxiously, and she refuses to meet Fleur’s gaze. 

“Do you know of the strange events at the Paris Opera?” He begins, and Fleur nods in answer. 

“The Opera Garnier, with that strange masked fiend? What was he called - the Opera Ghost?”

“The Phantom of the Opera. I am he.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we all REALLY blame Meg here though? Poor girl is just trying to talk about what she's feeling. And Erik is getting better! Though very slowly. For all of my readers out there that aren't big slow-burners, I promise there will be some ~ exciting ~ scenes coming up. 
> 
> I love you all! Thank you so much for reading. And thank you so much for all of your kudos/comments! They mean the absolute world to me :). 
> 
> (psssst! more shirtless Erik coming soon)


	12. chapter twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, my dear readers :). a new chapter awaits! i hope you enjoy <3.

“The who of the what now?” Fleur asks, arching an eyebrow. 

“The Phantom of the Opera, Madame. I created him, and I am him,” he replies, and Meg feels her mother reach under the table and grasp her hand tightly. 

Fleur was silent for a moment. “You were the masked man the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant. You killed the lead. You dropped the chandelier on the audience. You kidnapped that young girl!” Her face was red once again. “Was it you? Has he kidnapped you and dragged you here?” Her gaze bore into Meg’s, and her head shot up, shaking her head wildly back and forth. 

“Of course not! I wasn’t the girl, and he hasn’t kidnapped me! If I was, do you truly believe I would still be here? I would have gone to the police!” Meg exclaims, leaning forward. 

“Did your mother drag you into this, then? How could you do this to your own daughter?”

Madame Giry doesn’t reply, her face incredibly screwed and guilty. “Fleur, please, I would have been there alone. There was no other choice,” Meg defends. 

Fleur is silent for a moment before her eyes widen again, eyes finding Meg’s ring. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re truly married! That man is a monster. I have seen many things in my life, my dear, and nothing was quite as horrifying as that night, and I suspect his sins aren’t restricted to just that night.” 

“Marguerite,” her mother warns, but Meg ignores her, continuing on. 

“I’m not disagreeing with you, but please, please try to understand,” Meg begs. “I think it would be better if my mother explained this.” 

“I know nothing is going to change your mind. All I beg is that you leave Meg out of this, and you hear out Erik. Let me tell you the rest of the story - there’s so much more. So much more to him,” she explains passionately, putting a hand on Erik’s forearm. He glanced away from the brunette, and Meg recognized the brief flash of emotion in his eyes. 

“Alright,” she agrees, crossing her arms. Robin began to cry and Meg jumped up, but Fleur pointed an angry finger at her. 

“Don’t ever touch my grandson again,” she warns, leaving the room, heading toward the teary infant. 

Meg recoiled from the harsh words, and her mother gently rubs her back, trying to ease her pain. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Meg gasps out, and Erik’s fists clench, though not in anger. Regret and pain wells in his chest for the guilt she must be feeling. It bothered him, this swelling of sympathy in his heart. 

“Not your fault,” she reminds the blonde quietly. “Everything is going to be alright, ma choupette.” 

“Now, Robin, hush,” the grandmother lovingly chastises, holding the child against her bosom. Her skin was still flushed but gradually became paler again. The small bundle in her arms seemed to bring her a considerable amount of calmness, and Meg was grateful for it. 

“From the beginning, Erik, if that’s truly your name. You will omit no details of what you’ve done.”

“It would be better if I explain, Fleur,” Madame Giry points out, and after quick glances between them, she settles back into her chair, seemingly satisfied.

“Alright. How do I know if I can trust you?” 

“You don’t. But I have no reason to lie, and what I am about to tell you is far uglier than any well-groomed lie,” the brunette explains. “And if you decide to still place the blame, I ask that you place it entirely upon me.” 

“Antoinette -“ Erik begins softly, but she cuts him off, patting the back of his hand. 

“No ‘buts’, Erik. It will all be alright,” she reassures him before continuing on with her grim tale. She begins with little more than an explanation of his beginning few years with her, and entirely skipped over when he had ran away, and his time in Russia, Persia, and Italy. Meg saw the nervous glances he cast toward her mother after she seemed to evade something. Later, she determined, she would ask. But now was certainly not the time. 

At the end of her mother’s dark story, Meg felt heavy, dread hanging in her stomach after learning of Erik’s past, albeit much seemed to be held back. Never once has a priest, his family or whatever happened in Italy been mentioned. There was more left untold, she knew, much more than being toyed with and possessed at the circus, much more than being held captive in Persia. 

“You’ve had a long and troubling past, monsieur, I shall give you that,” Fleur says at long last. “But I am still inclined to remove you from anywhere near my family. I’m still unsure of what you are capable of, and that frightens me.” She turns the newspaper, pointing toward the headlines. “Is this you, then? Are you this horrid killer?”

“Of course not! I assure you, I am wholly here and not there!” He replies, and Madame Giry places a hand on his arm, attempting to calm him. 

“Fleur,” Meg says desperately, standing from her chair and rushing to place herself in front of the woman. “Please don’t tell anyone. We’ve made our way here, against all odds. No harm will come to you and your family - I promise.”

“And yet you have some sort of stalker? A group of them? One man cannot hold off an army of hate, my dear, especially when he himself is filled with such.”

There was no denying the fact that Erik was consumed with rage and anger and bitterness regularly, and from frustration of the situation, her face heated. She wished her mother would say something, say anything, but the mood was loud and clear - there was nothing to be done. 

“Meg, you remind me so much of my daughter, so much of me. Let me help you - I can take you someplace. Back to Paris, or anywhere you desire. Just say the word,” Fleur offers gently. 

Once upon a time, Meg would have taken the offer. Back on the ship, near the beginning, she would have jumped at this offer. To escape from his plagued eyes, his violent nature, his hard words. But now - and she knew it was foolish of her, perhaps - she wouldn’t leave him. Not yet. Not when he’d promised her so much, when she’d found companionship in this strange man, when she’d found a future of performing. And her mother? Never could she leave her! 

“Your offer means more to me than you will ever know, but I cannot leave him, Fleur, and I cannot leave my mother. I took this journey with them. Maybe it was not voluntarily at first, but it is now, and my choice is to stay.” She lifts the newspaper into her hands, pointing at the headlines and the rough supposed sketch of the person responsible. “I promise you that the man sitting across from you and the monster on this page are not the same. I understand if you would like us to leave, but I beg you, please don’t tell the police.” Her heart was pounding so rapidly she could barely find the breath to speak. “Please don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” 

She was silent for a moment, rocking the exhausted child in her arms, before glancing up at Meg. At long last, she finally said, “Meg, won’t you pull up a chair? I’d like to show you something.” 

A breathy exhale, and she glanced up at her mother and Erik. His form was frigid as he looked down, she suspected from anxiety, and her mother’s gaze was hooded, but hopeful. That was all the encouragement she needed to do so, though she scooted the chair with shaking hands. 

“Sit beside me,” she ordered gently, and Meg did so. She began to hand the child to Meg, and her eyes widened in confusion. What happened from before? 

“Hold his head like this,” she instructed, curling a palm behind the child’s head, “and rest him against your chest, near your heart.” 

“Madame -” Meg began, but Fleur shook her head. “Don’t ‘Madame’ me, Meg. I’d like to tell you something incredibly important.”

She carefully takes Robin into her arms, trying to slow her heart and stop the trembles in her limbs. He was small - oh so small - so small and fragile. Affection erupted in the blonde’s chest, and she smiled down at the child, a strange sense of peace beginning to wash over her, despite everything. Red curls lay against her chest, and tiny hands grasped at the flaxen strands falling from the front of her shoulders. In all of her excitement from earlier, much of her hair had fallen from the ribbon, and she hadn’t thought to fix it. 

“You hold life in your hands, Meg. New life. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” she replies, still looking down at the infant as small, pudgy fingers explored her lips and few strands of hair, and she giggled when he sneezed. 

“You know the weight of death then. You were there, weren’t you? On the stage that night?” She asks. “And you must have lost those close to you, at some point. Do you know what I’m getting at, Meg?’’

She was brought back to that night, then, and shivers wracked her spine as she saw the body of Piangi on the stage, behind one of the trapdoors in the sets. How awfully she’d screamed, she remembered. She could still feel the strain, still feel the terror built up in her throat. And when Buquet had fallen above her, no more than rope and a broken neck, she’d screamed then, too. But then a deeper pain filled her at the memory of her grandfather, when he had died, and she’d been no more than thirteen or fourteen. Dull devastation filled her at the memory of him, almost vague, like missing something you haven’t known for some time or forgotten. She looked up, then, and saw Erik staring back at her, his eyes soft as they focused, as if reading her pain. He seemed forlorn, then, and that familiar confusion wrestled inside of her. 

“I am not doubting your wisdom nor your experience, my dear, but I’d like to explain to you how important life is. It’s a strange concept - something you’d think one would understand after experiencing death. But after holding my daughter for the first time, and then my grandson, you understand the fragility of it all. In my experience, I’d never felt love so passionately as when I held them for the first time.” Her voice cracks, and Meg’s eyes jump up to hers only to see them fill with tears. Meg feels hers do the same from the show of emotion. 

“Forgive me. It pains me to speak of her so,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “Can you imagine the pain I felt when someone decided to rid the world of her? Can you imagine the magnificent pain of it? Murder is unforgiveable, and it hurts me beyond reason that I was tricked into thinking he was no one of any consequence, and now a wanted man is living under the same roof as I. And you are tied to him, through something more sacred than anything on this earth.” She gestures toward the ring on Meg’s finger. That inspired guilt in Meg, as it was one more lie to add to the growing pile. “I pray, Meg, that you ponder this, though I’m sure you already have.”

And she did. She thought about the little bundle in her hands, so full of life. Bright eyes stared back at hers, and a tear fell down her cheek at the thought of anyone planning evil against Robin. How she loved the little thing, without even having known him for long. 

“I will keep this a secret, if you promise to not make my husband aware of anything. He will not be as gracious as I. And if I hear of any new wrongdoings of yours, I will not hesitate. Understood?” She threatens, pointing a finger at Erik.

Meg doesn’t hear his or her mother’s response, only watches Robin as his eyes slip closed. How much trust he had, to fall asleep on her. Or perhaps he was just tired and she was the nearest pillow. 

“Oh, it must be his naptime. Meg, dear, could you put him in the carrier in the bedroom? I’d rather like to go find my husband,” she says, standing and approaching the door. “Antoinette? Would you accompany me? I’d rather like to speak with you privately.” 

Meg stands, crossing the room toward the bedroom, but her mother stops her, gentle hands on her face. “I love you, more than anything, Meg,” she says, brushing the tear away that had fallen down the blonde’s face. “You make me so proud, everyday.” She delivered a kiss to her forehead before walking toward Erik, who was still looking at his hands on the table. A gentle, motherly hand on his bare cheek, and then she was following Fleur out the door. 

She thought about her mother, then, about how she’d held Meg like that, as her own baby in her arms. She’d been a mother to many - to Christine, to Erik, and though she was strict, she loved all of the ballet girls dearly. Family, Meg was beginning to realize, wasn’t just flesh and blood. It was like with Christine. Though they held no relation to each other, they were close as sisters, and Meg didn’t think that even distance and time could separate their connection. 

Once she had placed Robin in his little resting place, she knelt beside him, arranging the blankets securely around him and pulling the curtain down so the sun wouldn’t blind him when he woke. 

She more felt than heard a presence behind her, and she turned to see Erik, standing in the doorway. She glanced back down at Robin, praying for the answers, praying for a sign that this was the right thing, that she was doing the right thing. 

“Meg,” he whispered, and she glanced up at him, a hand extended toward her, and she grasped it without a second thought, and he helped her stand. “Thank you.” 

She grasps his hand tightly in both of hers, and tries to make him understand, try to make him feel and understand the way she did. “It’s what friends are for, Erik.” 

His fingers shake in hers, and he looks away, a wayward curl falling over his forehead, and tears fill his eyes. In a second, she wrapped her arms around him, impossibly tight, her temple against his chest. 

His arms shook as they closed around her. A hand drifted up to cup the back of her head, holding her there. She felt his fingers clutch at her, coil into her hair and her dress, as if he were frightened she’d disappear. 

She didn’t have the answers, and she didn’t think she’d have them tomorrow. But either way, she’d be there for him. Her mother and she both would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! i appreciate each and every one of you. please let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> (pssssst, next chapter will be coming very soon!)


	13. chapter thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens! what more will meg and erik learn of the mysterious stalker? and most importantly - will meg escape her first encounter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my lovely readers! i hope you are having a wonderful morning, afternoon, or evening :). 
> 
> hope you enjoy!

The sun was still deep below the horizon when Meg awoke the next morning, groaning as she rolled over. There was warm candlelight in the corner as she opened her eyes, landing on the featureless mask donning Erik’s face.

His strange hours aren’t what startled her, but more so the absence of any activity. He simply stared down at the notebook, rolling the pencil in one of his hands, bouncing his leg rapidly. As her eyes adjusted further, she could see the bare part of his face screwed up in frustration, and his other hand clenched the corner of the table. 

Quietly she stands, wrapping her blanket about her shoulders and wincing from the sore muscles there. Sleeping on the floor was certainly doing nothing for the already stiff feeling in her body. 

“You’re up early,” he grunts out, dropping the pencil on the table and crossing his arms. Meg shushes him, holding a finger to her lips, and pointing toward her mother.

“So are you,” she points out, much quieter. “And I have my first day of working today. It certainly isn’t the worst idea to wake up this early.” The blonde comes to sit beside him, leaning her head against her fist, staring down at the papers. “Did you come up with any more ideas for . . . what was it called? Phantasma?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbles, dropping the pencil and running his fingers through his hair roughly. “And please don’t ask me any more questions about it.” 

“Alright,” she agrees, and she’s tempted to reach out, to grab his hands before he pulls any dark strands from his scalp, but she restrains herself from doing so. “Don’t feel bad, Erik. It’s okay to take a break sometimes, too.” 

He glanced at her from his peripheral, and she slowly reached across for him. “Can I see this?” She asks, and he nods, though the hand that now clenched the pencil was white and tight. 

“This too,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb across his knuckles, and he relinquished his grip, and she took the pencil into her hands, sliding closer to him. She noticed he became rigid when her shoulder touched his arm, but other than that, his discomfort seemed minimal, which she noted with a smile. 

She flips open the notebook, starting from the very beginning, and skims over his ideas. 

“What’s this costume for?” She asks quietly, pointing to the lower corner. 

“One of the performers,” he replies, not offering more than that. 

“It’s beautiful,” she admires, running her thumb over the design. It looked to be a feathered thing with alternating shades of darkness, a bedazzled top, and feathered straps, all in the form of a ballet tutu. It was more scandalous, however, with a sharp v-cut near the front. Tights, she presumes, with dark vine-like shapes tangle down the legs, ending with laced shoes. There was a sort of thick collar - that was shaded in too - to be worn about the neck. That was jeweled and glittered as well. A hat sat atop the featureless woman, more feathers and more glitter. 

“What color is it?” She asks. “Is it some sort of ballet costume?”

“It’s pink,” he murmurs, and she doesn’t see him then, but he was gazing right at her. “And in a way. It’s certainly modeled after one, though it’s important to create something different, something new.”

She understood that, understood the mechanics of a successful business, but one daunting question stood out to her. Would she still continue being a ballerina? Or was there another form of dance that was popular here? 

“All of these costumes are beautiful, Erik,” she praises. There were a few more, but none so grand as the one stood there in the corner. There was one that was a golden tiny thing, more scandalous than the one before it, with a sort of gold bralette, matching bottoms, and a feathered train. He said those he envisioned as green and red, and Meg was immediately reminded of the Alyssa dress from Hannibal. Atop the head was a crown - what a shock, more feathers - bejeweled and almost Persian in nature. The shoes were strappy and silken, and the blonde immediately knew the comfort of dancing the performer would experience in those. 

She examined the notebook with him for many more minutes, doodling in her own ideas and brainstorming with him until ideas swam in his head, and Meg surmised she could see each imagined color and shape in his eyes. She gave the notebook back to him and watched him work until the sun rose, and she realized she’d dozed off. 

“The pamphlet said bright and early - please eat something before going outside. I have a feeling you stay up there nearly all day,” she reminds him gently, though he shows no sign of response. She rolls her eyes, grabbing her bag and pulling it into the opposite corner so she could be afforded some privacy. 

She slips the nightgown off of her figure, pulling on the gray, drabby dress over her head and smoothing it over herself. Sliding on shoes, she pulls the mint green cape over her shoulders, clasping it in front of her neck. Bringing out the compact mirror, Meg runs the ornate brush through her blonde strands, using her fingers to work out the knots. 

Her mother had awoken at this point, and padded softly toward Meg, standing beside her. “Good morning, my love.”

“G’morning, Maman,” Meg greets cheerfully, grinning up at her. She stands, dropping the brush and the mirror into her bag, and lets her mother pull the hood up on her cape. 

“It may be a bit chilly today - maybe even a storm later on. Be careful, alright?” She says, walking into the kitchen, the blonde close behind her. “Some lunch for you. We’ll wait for you to return tonight before we eat dinner.”

“Thank you, Maman,” Meg says, letting herself be wrapped in a tight hug before being handed the wrapped bread and tucking it against herself. She risks a glance toward Erik, still finding him wrapped up in his work, and a small smile spreads across her mouth. 

“Goodbye, Maman!” Meg calls as she steps out of the door, shivering in the wind that whips about her. The sun was elusive, slipping behind clouds often as she made her way down the several blocks, wary of the crossing pedestrians that were tall and dark and dressed in black. 

She’d finally arrived at the factory, and sighed deeply, cringing at the smell that hit her almost immediately as she entered. The fumes were horrible, and not for the first time that day did she regret coming up with this idea. 

“Ah. You must be one of the new girls?” An older man says, approaching her, and she nods, forcing a smile to her face. 

She had absolutely no idea what he was saying, but her mother had instructed her to smile and nod if anyone questioned her. 

“I’ll have you start right over here,” he recommends, leading her toward a group of women, all sat around a table and scrubbing at a material that looked like leather. They all seemed to be older than her, maybe perhaps Erik’s age, and she sat down hesitantly. 

“How do you do?” A woman asked, and Meg shook her head, shrugging. 

“I . . . I don’t know how to speak English, only French,” she tries, feeling foolish as most likely none would understand her. 

Two of the women in front of her began to bristle, and a bout of frustration rose in Meg, thinking that they were poking fun at her handicap. However, they stood and left, bringing back a familiar red-head with the largest smile.

“Fleck!” She exclaimed, running up to throw her arms around her, and the girl embraced her back. “What are you doing here?” 

“My grandfather is the owner of this factory,” she explains, her arms tight around the blonde. “I needed somewhere to work other than that cruise ship, you know, after . . . after everything.” She pulls away, a frown on her face, identical to Meg’s. 

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” Meg says sincerely, grabbing the taller girl’s hands. “If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”

Fleck turns to the side for a moment, blinking away the tears that gathered there before returning her gaze to Meg. “How about a tour? There’s a few other women here who are fluent in English as well as French, and many French-speakers too.”

“Sounds brilliant,” Meg agrees, and the two girls lock arms, walking off toward the other side. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The excitement of reuniting with Fleck had soon worn off once she had begun her work. She was dirty and sweaty, and beyond tired. She was starving, having only had a few precious moments for lunch before diving back into routines. There were only a few coins in her pocket, and she prayed they were worth the amount of effort she’d expended today. 

It was dark, the moon and stars barely poking out from beneath the hidden clouds, and the path back home was a lonely one. She shivered, wrapping the cloak tighter around her, warding off the chills from the night and the paranoia threatening her resolve. 

They were almost imperceivable, but they were there: light doorsteps following, soft and distanced, but still there. She turns around quickly, finding no one, the hairs on the back of her neck standing. Meg wishes that she would have asked one of the girls to walk her home, but she simply hadn’t thought of it at the time. 

She breathed deeply, quickening her pace, and surely enough, the footsteps followed close behind. This time as she turns, she sees the dark outline of a tall figure, turning its head, as if pretending it weren’t looking straight at her before. 

She sprints now, gasping and nearly crying, her cloak flying wildly behind her in a halo of mint and darkness. She came upon their home, the figure still close behind, and she struggles with the lock, her fingers shaking too wildly.

“Come on, come on,” she mutters, wiping a frightened tear away with her soot-covered hand before finally unlocking the mechanism and slamming it shut behind her. 

The room was dark, no light to be found anywhere, and she heard a thump beside her. Meg startled, darting away from the sound, only to hear a low grown. 

“Meg Giry, what in-“

“Oh, Erik!” She interrupts, running to his side and helping him into his knees, matching her own position. She pulls him down, keeping him there, and she shook wildly. 

“Are you crying?” He questions, voice groggy and tired as he fumbles around for the matches, lighting the candle of the side table beside them. The warm glow reveals her tears, and looks at her expectantly.

“There was someone following me,” she whispers, worryingly casting a glance toward the window that they crouched below. “And when I knew for sure that they were, I started running, and they followed me here.” She explains quickly, wiping away the remnants of her tears. “Sorry for frightening you. I didn’t think anyone would be home. Is Maman still with Fleur and George?”

“She left a few hours ago,” he replies, glancing up toward the window now. “The man might still be there. We could apprehend him, tonight.”

“No, Erik! You could get hurt!” She argues, trying to force him back down. He wraps his hands around her elbows, hauling her up, and leading her toward the door.

“Show me where you were when you first noticed he was following you,” he instructs, and she shakes her head, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. 

“I don’t want to go, Erik. I’m scared. I just want to stay here.”

“Nothing will happen to you. He’s probably long gone by now anyway. But if we retrace your steps, perhaps we’ll find a clue to who our mystery stalker is,” he explains, but Meg still shakes her head, not wanting either of them to be in any sort of danger. 

“This isn’t safe,” she argues, and he sighs, restraining emotion by fisting his hand. 

“I’ve escaped death for longer than you’ve been on this earth, and nothing will certainly happen to you,” he promises, glancing at her in the candlelight. 

“Alright,” she reluctantly agrees, wrapping the cloak tightly around herself once more. Erik awkwardly wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him, though he eventually settles with a hand on her back. Meg tries to ignore the intense pounding in her chest from his touch. 

“It’s this way,” she says, steadying her voice, and taking him down the main street and behind the following buildings. 

The familiar chill of paranoia and fear returned to her, though she felt safer now, with the rudely tall man beside her. She was glad it was silent between them, not at all up for conversation, and every noise they made caused her to squirm and cringe. 

“Up there?” He asks, pointing toward the exit of the shoe factory, and she nods, hurrying up with him. There was a slam of a door somewhere close by, and she startles, cringing away from the jarring sound and grasping the material of his shirt in her fingers, pulling herself flush against him. 

“Are you quite well? Frightened of doors now?” He jokes, and she shoves him away, frowning. 

“Forgive me for having a normal human reaction, you scoundrel,” she huffs, and he mocks hurt, placing a hand against his chest. 

“You wound me.” 

“I’m sure,” she replies facetiously, crossing her arms again. She’d loathe to admit it, especially to him, but Meg enjoyed these moments, where the man beneath the melodrama and theatrics had shown through, and he was just Erik. Just Erik. 

After a few minutes of him running around the small area and Meg standing, shivering, giving up after looking for any sort of clue of who the man was, there was a flutter of movement next to them, and the blonde snapped her head around. 

There, she saw a large building, lit up softly in the darkness. She squinted and saw three or four girls, wearing heeled shoes that matched bright red lips and coats. They wore small dresses with fishnet stockings, each a different loud color. 

A strange, dark man walked up to the woman in green, and wrapped an arm around her waist. The couple walked off, then, turning the corner, and she saw his hand lower down her back. After a moment, the man turned around to face Meg, though his face was within shadows. The second she drew closer to Erik and the man seemed to acknowledge him, he had pulled the girl down the alley. 

“Erik,” she whispers now, coming up behind him. “I want to leave. Now. I don’t want to be here a moment longer. If we haven’t found anything yet, then there isn’t anything here.” 

“A moment,” he tells her from his knees, bent over on the street. He swears, jumping up beside her. “Not even a trace! Perhaps we missed something on the way here.”

Or perhaps there is nothing, she wants to argue, but she bites her tongue. He beckons her beside him, and they begin the walk home, little to no view of their surroundings other than the surrounding street lamps. Once again, Meg noticed the ghostly appearance of his mask in the soft light, and she shivers. 

“Did you . . . Did you see that woman? The one that was across the street?” She asks, burying her hands into the pockets of her coat. She wished for her cape, for it was far warmer and thicker than the current article of clothing she donned. 

“Why? Is that who was following you?” He questions before his eyes become wide, and his eyes flick to hers. “That man. Was it him?”

“I don’t know . . . “ she admits, tangling her fingers together. “I think he ran after he saw you. Perhaps that’s what happened before at home.”

He abhorred that word, home. Never had he had a home, always traveling from place to place. Perhaps the opera house had been his home, and he dreamed of music and warmth and children when he dreamed of Christine. Though that place had been his realm, his dominion, never had any sort of belonging pulled him to remain. Madame Giry had been perhaps the only person to love him, truly and wholly, despite who he was, what he had done, and what he continued to do. And even then, he’d felt out of place, still wandering, wishing for belonging, seeking out something he couldn’t name. That was, until he’d found Christine. 

“Perhaps,” he mumbled, pushing back the current of emotion building up behind his eyes. 

“Erik, are you alright?” Meg asks gently, touching his elbow, and he jerks away.

“Yes. I am fine,” he replies, almost apologetically. He’d seen a blink of hurt in her eyes, gone as quickly as it had come. It was much easier to mask emotions behind a mirror. 

The silence was nearly awkward between them as they approached their makeshift home, and Meg darted in front of him when he opened the door, entering the place quickly. He shuts the door behind them, and Meg jams a chair under the doorknob. 

“Ah, but what of your mother and the others?” He asks, and she huffs, pulling the chair back. 

“What if it was him, Erik? What if he followed us home?” She worries. Erik leisurely spreads himself on the couch, crossing his ankles. His shirt was pulled tight across his chest, and Meg wishes she could have traveled back to the few seconds before she’d noticed. 

“I believe he is quite preoccupied as we speak, my dear,” he answers. “Now off to the showers with you. I’d prefer to bathe in your putrid-smelling lotion than go a moment more smelling hot leather and melted rubber.” 

“Better than your damp, moldy lair,” she retorts, grinning as she shoots up.

“You lie!” He accuses. “And to think I was going to offer you half of my dinner. Perhaps it would be better spent on stray dogs.” 

“Silly me! I must have misspoke!” She grins, smiling alluringly at him. Before she can continue on, he holds up a hand.

“Bathe first, and it’s yours. Get that awful stench out before you stink the place.” 

“Deal!” She says, gathering her things into her arms and depositing them into a small wash bag. She hurries out of the room, pulling her hair from its ribbon. 

She descended the stairs two steps at a time, thankful that it was inside this time. She felt nervous, being alone right now, as that was the last thing she wanted. The prospect of asking Erik to stand outside the door while she bathed in a public washroom, however, seemed worse than being chased by a lunatic. 

Nevertheless, something didn’t sit right with her as she approached the washroom. She sealed the door behind herself, placing her bag beside the stall-less room, and turned the water on. It was freezing when it first touched her, and she hisses, darting away. Eventually, it began to warm, but just barely. She pushed the thoughts of murder and mayhem and prostitution from her head, all bothering her greatly, and instead focusing on scrubbing her skin clean. 

She’d barely sopped the cheap soap on her skin before there was a knock on the door, and she yelps, covering her hand with her mouth and backing away, looking about her for a place to hide. Was it the man? Had he come and found her, as she feared? 

Before she could splutter out any words, the person on the other side of the door replied. “Meg!” Erik yells, and she sighs, her shoulders dropping in relief. 

She hurriedly places a towel around herself, approaching the door, wet and red and angry. “Erik, I’m trying to wash up. Can’t this wait -“

“There was a man? You mentioned a man,” he says, seeing the towel around her body and forcing the door open. His eyes stay glued to hers, even as her towel slipped the barest inch and she hurried to right it. 

“Yes, with one of the women. I think she wore a green dress?” She guesses. “But what’s it matter? You knew this before.”

He runs off, then, quickly, a crazed look in his eyes. 

“Erik, wait!” She shouts, stepping forward before remembering her current state of undress. He doesn’t wait, however, and she shrinks back into the shower room, staring fearfully at the knob until she’s finished washing herself quickly.

Meg uses the soap she has left to clean her dirtied clothes, ignoring the rumbling in her stomach. She felt upset that Erik had fled, leaving her alone. Especially as a woman, she was fearful of things that happen in dark corners and alleys. She remembers her mother nearly screaming at her and Christine after she’d discovered them gone from their beds, only to discover them sneaking back in later, hands filled with fair food. Madame Giry had been angrier than perhaps Meg has ever seen her before, and told them of monsters that wait in the dark, and they were lucky to have returned. The blonde had reassured her mother that a kind boy with a hood had offered to walk them home, and somehow, that seemed to have upset her more. 

Never had she gone out past curfew, then, unless to help Christine meet Raoul, but even then it wasn’t as if she were alone. 

The irony of her protection laying in a murderer’s hands did not escape her, though the question of why she felt safe, even after his spouts of anger, is what truly confused her. She’d accepted the protection, realizing that her own skills didn’t quite exceed fooling a dangerous stalker. 

She made her way back to the room after it was finished, prepared to give Erik a piece of her mind, when she walked in to a worried Madame Giry and Fleur and a pacing Erik. She only saw enough to see Fleur stand and leave to the bedroom when she arrived, meeting George and Robin inside, leaving the trio. 

The masked man avoids her gaze as she walks in, and fear suddenly fills her. 

“What’s going on? What happened?” She questions, and her eyes blow wide as she sees spots of red on the collar of Erik’s shirt. “What?” She exclaims, rushing to him and pulling at the material there. His hands raise, and she gasps, grabbing them. On his fingers and palms were smeared blood, and she thought she was going to be sick. 

“It’s not mine,” is all he responds with, and her eyes raise to his, curious and scared. 

“What do you mean?”

“Erik went back to the place you said you saw the man. All on a hunch, mind you . . . the prostitute with the green dress you saw?” Her mother approached her slowly, turning Meg so she was forced to drop Erik’s hands. “She was murdered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looks like meg got the short end of the stick again. but most importantly, who was the woman? how does she connect? any guesses on who the killer might be yet? 
> 
> by the way, the WONDERFUL candalor/mysteriarchofthepen gave me a beautiful illustration of meg and the persian in the first chapter. HUGE thank you! i literally CANNOT stop looking at it. i am beyond honored :).


	14. chapter fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blondie and dummy continue to become closer, though things begin to escalate quickly. will they ever catch a break?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good morning, afternoon or evening my lovely readers! i wanted to let you know that i am HOPEFULLY going to have a few more updates than normal in the next two weeks (i believe i have up to chapter sixteen or seventeen??) as classes will be starting after that. HOWEVER, i will still be updating. no hiatus, we die like men. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

For a few moments, all Meg sees is black, and Erik very nearly reaches out to steady her, looking as if she were about to faint. 

“Meg,” her mother says gently, stepping forward to grasp her shoulders. “Let’s sit down on the sofa.”

She guides the blonde to the furniture, placing her upon the makeshift bed, and her heart breaks as she sees tears gather in her daughter’s eyes. 

“I was there,” she whispers, fingers shaking as she folds them against her chest. “I should have said something. I should have something. I should have intervened.” Her voice trembles wildly. “It could have been me, couldn’t it?” 

Erik steps forward before Madame Giry can get a word out, coming directly in front of her line of sight. “It could not have been you, Marguerite Giry, because I was there. And it won’t ever happen. You will never be in harm’s way, and any blood spilled tonight was not on your hands. Am I clear?” His voice was fierce and promising, and the mother was almost startled by his passionate admission.

His features soften when a tear escapes her eye, and he wordlessly bends down to fetch her forgotten bag, and places it near her things. She watches his hands, his fingers, his lips, the edge of his mask, and then suddenly she can’t breathe and she’s gasping and her mother is reaching for her but no, she has to get away, has to get away . . .

Meg grips the railing outside tight, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to process the horror and the guilt. But no matter how hard she tried, the scream from the ship ricocheted in her head. So much death was about her. 

The door opens behind her slowly, perhaps hesitantly, and then she hears the voice of her mother, “Leave her be. She’ll talk when she needs to. Give her a chance to breathe.” 

And why was he worried? He was the one who had left her and discovered death! Is that why he had left her behind? Knowing they’d made a crucial mistake leaving? Meg felt as if it were her fault, since she had been the one to beg him to leave. Perhaps, she realizes, she should have encouraged him to follow the couple. 

She eventually makes her way to the roof, where Erik seemed to spend his days, and in a lonely moment, she realizes why he does. The air was easy and crisp at the top, and stars leered brightly above her. It was cold, almost blindingly so, but she ignored it. 

The blonde hears footsteps behind her, and she wonders if it’s her mother. She lays back, shivering, and wipes the cold tears from her cheeks, gazing upwards. After a moment, however, his silhouette appears in her line of sight, and she quickly realizes it’s Erik. 

He awkwardly stands, looking over her before sprawling outside beside her. She feels his fingers inch alongside hers, and in a push of confidence, Meg tangles her fingers with his. 

His touch grounds her, and though her heart now beats rapidly, she feels stronger. 

“Your mother is devastated,” he tells her quietly, and she frowns again. 

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, feeling her lower lip begin to tremble. “I shouldn’t have made you leave. We should have stayed.”

“Perhaps,” he replies, and she feels her stomach drop, closing her eyes against the stars as more tears well in her eyes. “But there was no way of knowing, Meg. I’d simply dismissed your idea, as I didn’t think any skilled stalker would be so clumsy in letting you see him freely. So if anything, the fault lies with me.” 

“No it doesn’t,” she argues, bolting upright and glaring down at him, but his thumb runs over her own, and she shivers, not from the cold. She quietly sinks back down to the ground, all the fight in her draining. “Perhaps no one is to blame, then.”

A beat, and then, “Aside from nearly ripping my head off after she found out, Fleur is worried about you, too. She asked me to check on you, and if I refused, she promised to toss me over the railing herself.” 

“And did you?” Meg grins, reaching up to brush an escaped tear away. 

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” He chuckles, and her grin widens. She inches all the closer to him until their entwined hands rested snuggly between their thighs. 

They lay together for a while in silence, and Meg eventually finds herself drifting off alongside Erik despite the cold. 

He awoke sometime later to a nest of blonde hair in his face, and found that she’d placed her head upon his shoulder and curled toward him. Her knee has risen to rest atop his own, as if cradling him, and Erik nearly reached down to glide his hand over her calf. 

His mind warred against him, whispering that she would be horrified if she woke to find them in this position, and she’d simply drifted over because she was cold. Not for any other reason than that. Why else would she have done so? He questions. Yet he couldn’t find it within himself to let her go. 

His arm was wrapped beneath her, holding the blonde to him. Tapered fingers curled into her nightgown, and his other hand rested on the crevice of her bent knee. 

She was beautiful like this, asleep and under the moon. Meg’s face was serene, lips parted slightly, warm breath blowing against his neck. Erik removes his hand from her knee, skimming his fingers up her body and brushing away the golden hair that had fallen over her face. He gently curls the flaxen strands behind her ear. 

His breathing deepened as Meg nuzzled into his neck, lips brushing against the sensitive skin there. Without thinking, he drags his finger over the bridge of her nose, the arch of her eyebrow, and then skims the back of his fingers down to her jaw. It was intoxicating, feeling the moist breath against his skin. His thumb brushes against her mouth, and he shivers, feeling invasive. 

“Alright. Come on, then,” he mumbles, lifting the girl into his arms. He’d carried her before, he remembered, in the same way he’d once carried Christine. Yet when he closed his eyes to remember chocolate ringlets, a halo of golden instead remained. 

She remained limp in his arms, her head lolling into his neck, and he held her close to him, nudging her arms so they’d curl against his chest. Erik shivered, standing still, gazing up at the stars. 

There were no thoughts, no words, no melodies. There was a tugging in his chest, and his fingers shook as gazed back down at her. “Oh, Meg,” he murmurs, close enough to see the freckles dotting her nose and under her eyes. 

He felt something so deep, so affectionate for her in that moment that it was painful. It was a passionate agony, so alike to what he felt for Christine that it frightened him. 

The masked man descends the stairs quickly, keeping the blonde tucked safely against him. Her skin was freezing, and a pang of guilt struck him at the sight of her bare feet. 

Carefully opening the door, he was shocked to find Madame Giry staring at the two, a look of surprise painting her features. 

He avoided her eyes as he moved to set Meg on the floor, slipping his arm out from beneath her. Erik cradles her head in his palms, setting her upon the pillow. 

His large frame hid most of the scene, but Madame Giry swore that she saw him tuck the blanket oh so carefully around her, pulling it up to her chin, and brushing hair back from her forehead with his palm. He detracted himself from her, as if burned, and backed away until he sat in the chair he occupied often. 

It was an uncomfortable feeling that settled over Madame Giry then. From knowing them both, she’d been worried they wouldn’t get along, being at each other’s necks constantly. She had hoped that they would find some layer of peace, even if that meant ignoring each other completely, perhaps even growing friendly eventually. The former ballet mistress never considered the possibility that Meg would grow fond of him, or that he would latch onto her. Was that what was happening? 

“My boy,” she murmurs, coming to stand by him, brushing her fingers against his shoulder. “Go lay on the sofa for a while. Even in the darkness I can see the circles beneath your eyes.”

“I’m fine,” he replies stubbornly. “You sleep there. You shouldn’t have to sleep on a chair.”

“I took a nap earlier today, and all of this excitement has rather woken me up. Go lay down, Erik,” she persuades. 

He gives in, exhaustion weighing his shoulders down. Toeing his shoes off and sliding his overjacket away, he makes his way toward the sofa, careful to avoid the sleeping blonde. Though it was uncomfortable, the mask was to remain on. Though he suspected she’d already gotten more than enough view of his ravaged face, he didn’t like curious eyes on his deformity. It reminded him too much of the circus, too much of his childhood. 

Erik turns away from her, laying on the bare side of his face, stomach pushing into the cushions. He was much too long for the furniture, to his dismay, so his legs dangled off the end. 

Madame Giry watched as his breathing deepened, and his arm sling over the edge, the tips of his fingers skimming a crown of blonde hair. 

Perhaps a stubborn, compassionate girl was what he needed. Though she loved him dearly, her brain waged war against her motherly affections, reminding her of what he’d done to Christine. How little of a taste he had in healthy relationships. It hurt the Madame immensely to know that perhaps she was the only person who loved it, and had ever loved him. 

Meg sniffed violently in her sleep, her knee jerking before turning to face Erik, his fingers now drooping across her forehead. The blanket slips lower on her chest and she settles onto her side, curling her hands beneath her chin. 

The black onyx was still on his pinky, the ballet mistress saw, and it pulled painfully at her heartstrings. How awful it had been, outing him to Raoul, but she had feared greatly for Christine in that moment. Worried that he’d take her, and come to his senses all too late. It was a decision that nearly tore her in half, but in her heart, she knew it was the right thing to do. Still, that decision remained a great source of guilt for her, and she suspected it always would. 

She remembers how heartbroken he had been when they’d found him, nearly drowned, three empty bottles of whiskey drank and cracked against walls. He’d lain there, in the lake, higher than a kite, barely conscious. 

Sleep evaded the mother for the rest of the night as she worried, staring out at the open window, wondering if she’d see the same silhouette that seemed to follow Meg. One more misstep towards her daughter, and she’d wring his neck herself. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Exhausted eyes flutter open as the late afternoon sun brightly shines through the window, awaking the blonde. She lazily stretches, curling her toes beneath her, ankles popping deliciously. Her eyes flutter open, just barely, enough to see that the couch was empty. 

She crawled onto the cushions, which were much comfier than the ground, and her spine and neck immediately felt relieved. As she settled in, she found a blanket, almost pearl in the sun, and she buried her nose inside of it, blocking out the sun. 

It smelled of something masculine, like the outdoors, like soap, and it reminded her almost immediately of her father. She allowed herself the longing and sadness that came along with him, and she curled around the blanket tightly. 

“Would you like the leather shoes as well? They go quite nicely with the shirt,” a voice drawls above her, and Meg slowly turns over, opening her eyes nervously. 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she groans, her gaze beginning at the hand extended out for her, and then finding his upper half to be bare once more. 

Meg realized then very quickly that the blanket she held was, in fact, not a blanket, but Erik’s shirt. Blushing deeply, she ducks her head, tosses the shirt at him, and pushes past his shoulder. 

“Did Maman go out with Fleur again?” She questions, and he nods, buttoning up his chest. 

“They went to attend church. Your mother thought it best to let you sleep in,” he explains. 

“They didn’t happen to leave any food, did they?” She questions, looking around for something to eat. Nausea pooled in her stomach and the bottom of her throat, caught somewhere between being hungry enough to be sick and feeling too sick to be hungry. She groans happily when she finds the other half of his supper that he’d offered the night before. 

Her eyes follow him discreetly as he sits beside her, almost nervously, and a private grin crosses her face as she stuffs a large piece of croissant into her mouth. 

“After you’re done stuffing your face, I’d . . . I’d like to show you some of my new designs,” he explains, straight-forward and clinical, though she saw his finger drum against his knee, a nervous tick for him. 

Meg is absolutely ecstatic, pressing herself against his side, leaning over his arm, and studying his new ideas. This time, they were colored, and Meg noticed that each model was drawn with golden locks, as golden as she was, and a deep blush once again returned to her cheeks. 

“Are these of me?” She asks, her voice awe-filled, and he nods, his lips twitching in a half smile as a large one crosses her own.

“They’re beautiful!” She exclaims, placing a hand on his upper arm, grinning widely. Erik was all at once shocked that something he had done had caused this much joy in the blonde, and that he was capable of bringing happiness. 

“I’ve never had anyone do anything like this for me before,” she grins sentimentally, running her index finger over the drawings. 

He decides to leave out the fact that he had been the one to make the costumes for his Don Juan, including hers. 

“Oh, thank you, Erik! I can’t believe you made these — and with me in mind! I’m beyond honored,” she exclaims, turning back around to face him. And without another thought, she wraps her arms around him, burying her head against his shoulder. 

“You truly didn’t know these costumes were for you? Even when I’d show you them before?” He questions seriously, and breath escapes her lips when his arms come to encircle her in return, albeit hesitantly and lightly. 

“Maybe one of them, but I figured they were for anyone to wear,” she replies honestly. She felt giddy, nearly shaking from excitement, and he chuckled above her. 

“And the pink one? Did you think that was for just anyone?” 

“Well, I do have a particular affinity for pink. It’s my favorite color.”

“I know.” 

She pulls away, only slightly, to smile up at him and thank him again, but when she does so, it was only moments until she recognizes that they are only a breath away. Meg’s breath hitches when his eyes drop to her lips, her tongue darting out to wet them, a habit she’d developed when she was nervous. His eyes darken almost wickedly, and confident fingers wind around the ends of her hair. 

She’d never kissed a boy before - or a man, she corrects, either. The blonde had certainly imagined it in her mind with the other boys she’s fancied. Her mind reels back to the first time she’d seen the Vicomte, and how handsome he’d been. He’d been so sweet to her, offering her one of the flowers in Christine’s bouquet. She blushes at the memory, especially now that she was in the arms of a much, much different man. 

Small fingers drift up to his neck, pressing against his shoulders as the masked man’s gaze traveled her features, which she was sure were tinged pink. As he loomed close, he saw a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes, so light that only closeness revealed them. 

“Oh,” she breaths, clutching onto the collar of his shirt as he tilts his head, their lips nearly skimming, when an eruption of voices chatted vibrantly outside. They quickly jump apart, Meg gasping and holding a hand to the front of her neck. She doesn’t even glance toward the door as it opens, already so accustomed to the weight of her mother’s footsteps. 

“Ah, Meg. I wanted to speak with you about some new arrangements, in order to ensure your safety. And Erik, dear, why are you on the floor? No need for your clothes to be dirtied.” 

Erik avoided Madame Giry’s eyes as if she were a plague, and quickly darted out of the door behind her, graceful footfalls of his italian leather shoes echoing until he reached the top. 

“Is he alright?” Her mother questions worriedly, and Meg nods quickly, wishing the flames under her skin would extinguish. 

“Yes, yes, he’s fine. He, uh, forgot something on the roof,” she lies, twiddling her fingers nervously together in her lap. “Yup. He forgot his notebook on the roof.”

“But his notebook is right there, Meg,” she questions, giving her daughter a curious look, pointing toward the evidence on the table.

“Oh, yeah. Um, he forgot his other notebook.”

“His other notebook,” the older woman deadpans. 

“Yes! His other notebook. He . . . he composes in the other one.” Okay, Meg, enough, she tells herself. 

“Did he say something to you, ma choupette?” She asks gently, sitting beside the blonde. “I rather feel as if you are lying to me.”

“Oh, you know how he gets, Maman. It’s only been a month and I’ve already cycled through all of his moods, I suspect,” she tries, attempting to banish the blush away and crack a smile.

Madame Giry gives Meg a pointed look, but then softens her gaze. She wanted to press more, worrying about the extent of their relationship, but she trusted her daughter with life itself. So trust her, she did. 

“Are you still comfortable working, Meg? I’m sure you know how I feel about it, but I understand why it’s important to you,” she murmurs, brushing her daughter’s hair away from her shoulder. 

“I promise, Maman. And didn’t you say Erik would be with me, too? I’ll be completely fine,” she promises, grabbing her mother’s hands. 

“Oh, Meg, my little one,” she says, cupping her cheeks. “I was absolutely terrified when Erik told me what had happened, and what had nearly happened to you. I can’t believe he took you back out!”

“Maman, he was only trying to help,” the blonde defends. “If we hadn’t have gone back out, then perhaps we wouldn’t have known a thing about the murder. Erik was only trying to keep us safe.” 

She was silent for a moment as she gazed down at her daughter, before Meg buried herself into her mother’s arms, immediately feeling better. 

“And you are okay? From what happened last night?” She questions, rubbing her back. “You gave us all quite the fright, my love.” 

“I wish we could have helped that woman,” Meg whispers into her mother’s shoulder. “And it was certainly the man that’s been following us?”

“Erik wrote an anonymous letter to the police detailing the crime, but apparently, someone had already admitted to the crime through another letter,” she explains. 

“I’ll be careful, Maman. It will be alright,” she promises, smiling as the Madame runs fingers through her hair. 

Meg’s heart skips a beat at the idea of Erik walking her in the mornings and evenings. Had he been the one to suggest it? Or had it been someone else? She felt prone to argument, wanting to fight for independence, but there wasn’t much left in her in terms of opposition toward him. In fact, a secret smile slid across her face at the mere thought of Erik. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Madame Giry and Meg spent the day together, sitting outside, sipping a strange sort of concoction. It was sparkling water, Fleur had called it, and though it was elegant, Meg rather thought it should be called stale water instead. 

Their neighbors were pleasant - especially the ones that offered the blonde croissants and macaroons - and Meg felt a sense of community building within her, like when she was at the opera house. It helped that their neighborhood was compiled of French people, and she rather figured no one would recognize her. It was almost too easy to be vague or lie about her past, and it chipped away at her resolve, one-by-one.

At last, the sun had begun to sink beneath the city, and though she was tired and her voice hurt something awful from talking all day, it pained her to leave, not ready to sleep yet. 

“It was wonderful meeting you,” she says to the boy she’d been speaking with, kissing her hand. She grins at him, and he returns it. “You’ll have to show me your paintings some time.”

“There may just be one of you, then, Mademoiselle,” he flirts, and Meg blushes. 

“I’ll see you soon, Victor.” And though his wide-lipped smile colored her cheeks, she hoped that the man on the roof would return soon. 

Once they’d made it back inside and readied themselves for bed, Erik returned, holding his coat over his shoulder, and slipping his shoes off in the corner. She thought it must be rather uncomfortable to sleep in day clothes, but it didn’t seem he had any night ones, other than the blue robe he occasionally wore. 

She must have dozed off at some point, for she awoke a while later, a figure hunched over her, leather fingers brushing against her cheek. 

“Erik?” She murmurs, curious as to why he was there, touching her. At first, she thought it was him, and very nearly questioned the rare affection, but then soon recognized that his body wasn’t as tall, the shoulders weren’t as broad, and the fingers certainly weren’t as tapered. She screams, pushing the figure off of her, and he seems to disappear, almost as if in thin air. 

Almost immediately, the real Erik was on her, scrambling to his knees and grabbing her arms. “Meg, what’s wrong?” Erik says fiercely, and her gaze ddarts to the center of the room, and he turns his neck, finding the same place she was looking. 

“There was someone here! He was touching my face, and . . . and he touched my face and then he was just gone!” 

Madame Giry quickly lights a match, bringing it around the room, though everything was just as it was before. She casts a worried glance down at Meg, who shook underneath Erik’s hands. 

“It was him!” She swears, looking up at her mother. “I swear, he was here! It was him! He . . . he had leather gloves, and--and he wore a hood. It was him!” 

There was a soft murmuring outside and lights began to illuminate through the window, and Madame Giry quickly swept over the room and went outside, reassuring everyone that her daughter had only had a nightmare, and everything was fine. 

“Please believe me! It wasn’t just a nightmare, Erik, he was in here!” She begs, beginning to feel light-headed as anxiety pulsed through her, and she anchors herself to him by grabbing his waistband. 

“Meg, I know you’re scared, but you need to calm down,” he instructs softly. “Nothing is going to happen tonight.” 

She tries to steady her breathing, tries to focus on his hands, the cold of his ring pressing into her skin. “Okay,” she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“I’ll go check in the hallway, alright?” He says, and she nods, watching him as he stands. Meg brings her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and wiping escapedd tears away. 

Her mother returns, and she immediately jumps up, curling into her mother’s side. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees Fleur and George standing worriedly in the doorway of the bedroom. 

At the sound of a door shutting, she looks up, finding Erik approaching them. “There’s no one there,” he begins, “and I don’t think anyone ever was there.” 

“What if he escaped through the front door? He could be running away this very second! What if he took something!” She exclaims, tearing away from her mother and falling to her knees, quickly going through her bag until she found the small pink clip bag, opening it only to find every coin still there. She then begins to wonder if she’s truly gone mad. 

“If you can, go back to sleep, Meg,” her mother encourages, and Meg flinches away from her touch, glaring up at her. 

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you saw something, Meg, and I also believe that you are in no danger at this moment,” she says gently, and Meg’s resolve weakens, though she certainly didn’t feel tired. 

“Alright, Maman,” she agrees reluctantly, moving to stand. She strikes a match from the pouch with shaky hands, lighting a candle, and Erik watches with a heavy heart as she places it near her pillow, too afraid to sleep in the dark. 

From his chair, he watches as her breathing deepens, soon asleep, though she twitches occasionally. All seemed well until he spotted Meg’s battered copy of Frankenstein on the floorr, shoved into the corner. 

“You really did see something, didn’t you?” He whispers, gazing down at her curiously before lifting his eyes to the hallway door, and quickly ramming the top of the chair underneath the door handle. 

He retrieves the book, returning it to her bag, before sitting against the wall, which proved to be even more uncomfortable than the chair. However, he was closer to the two women, and eventually was able to fall asleep. 

What he also missed was the smear of crimson across Meg’s cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and for erik and meg? ITS DENIAL TIME MY CHILDREN. 
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed! and thank you for your comments! it's always the best part of my day when i get to read them, and they really encourage me to continue writing. if you have any more guesses for who the killer may be, i'd love to hear you thoughts! 
> 
> (also, did anyone else freak out about that whole west end thing? it was the crying on my bedroom floor as i called a friend at 2am for me lol. i'm glad it was all a misunderstanding. thanking the broadway gods that it was just a big game of What If.)


	15. chapter fifteen

Erik awoke groggy and sore, the warped skin beneath his mask sticky from sweat. He nudged his fingers gently under the carved porcelain, wincing as the tips of his fingers felt rough and brittle against his cheek. It wasn’t until a few moments, when his thigh began to cramp, when he noticed the pressure on his lap. 

Meg was asleep on his thigh, and he saw the candle knocked over, the floor beneath it scorched. She must have kicked it over, perhaps in the midst of a nightmare, and crawled over to him. How strange, he thought, to comfort someone, even though he’d had very little of it in his life. That uncomfortable, dull pang of grief latched itself onto his heart, and it made him angry to imagine the blonde dancer afraid or hurt, who was perhaps the bravest woman he’s ever known. 

He pondered that thought, for a moment, suddenly feeling invasive and invaded and wanting to get away. There was a confusion there, and a deep-seated affection, and he found there was nothing more that he wanted than to push it away. Erik had never been the one to sort out his feelings - and he certainly wouldn’t start because some feisty ballerina touched him without fear, and spoke to him as any other man. 

Yet when he looked down at her, pale and small and asleep, it took more self-control than he would like to admit to not brush his fingers over her features. And certainly not with her mother asleep only a handful of feet away. 

And why had she come to him for comfort? She surely can’t feel this safe with him. He wanted to wake her, to shake her shoulders, to growl at her until she revealed her intentions. Perhaps this was all revenge for Christine. Perhaps her dear friend had been the last straw, and this whole situation rather allowed her a good opportunity to get back at him. Break his heart like he’d broken Christine’s. 

If Meg Giry is truly capable of such acting extremes, then perhaps Erik should have invested his efforts into her. 

He didn’t like it, knew his mind rather liked to play tricks such as these, as Madame Giry had liked to call them. When he was nearly a boy of ten or eleven, the ballet mistress had given him his first gift that hadn’t been stolen. It had been a beautiful calligraphy set with his name enscribed inside the box in flowing scarlet. It had been after he’d cried, after he’d been asked for a surname, and he had none to give. The woman had taken pity, and after a tray of bread and cheese and the chocolates he’d grown fond of, she’d offered her own. 

“But you aren’t my mother!” He’d announced, jaw-slackened. All of the kindness she’d shown him had turned itself in his mind, and he’d accused her of lying to him, that not even his own family could bear him. 

“While that may be true, I’m still here for you. And I don’t want you ever thinking that any of this is a lie, my boy. I care for you, little one.”

She’d then wrapped him in his first hug, his first affectionate comfort, and she’d told him not to let his mind play little tricks like this, that doubt likes to lie to him. And it seems, even at twenty-eight, he still couldn’t see the difference. 

It didn’t matter, though, any of the doubt or any of it, for Meg’s weight suddenly became uncomfortable and he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. 

With shaky fingers, he cradled her head and moved her off of him, carefully setting her on the ground before standing, putting a few feet between them. 

“Meg,” he said, standing above her, crossing his arms. She doesn’t reply, only moaning at the sudden loss of his body heat and curling around herself. He rolls his eyes, considering nudging her with his toe, but out of the newfound respect for her, Erik instead kneels beside the girl and gently shakes her shoulder. 

She gasps awake, then, a strangled groan escaping her as she scrambles away, her mouth opened in a silent scream. 

Erik raises his hands, almost dejectedly, something strange in his eyes, and Meg calms. Breathing heavily, she crawls back, though when she tries to touch his bare cheek, his flinches away. Instead, she settles on grasping his hand in both of hers. 

“I’m sorry, Erik. I-I thought you were him. I saw your hair and it looked so much like-like a hood and . . . “ she sighs, the masked man still looking away from her. “You frightened me, that’s all.”

“Trust me, my dear, I understand. If the first thing I saw in the morning was myself, I’d startle away, too.” His voice was small and hoarse, and Meg held his hand tighter, though he didn’t return it. 

“Stop speaking of yourself like that, Erik. That’s not how I view you, and you know it,” she replies, fiercely, daring him to look back. 

“And how do I know that, Marguerite Giry? Am I not the man who tore you from yoube home, broke your best friend’s heart, ruined your career? Why wouldn’t you take revenge on my loathsome self?” His tone was angry now, and his jaw stiffened. A spark of hot red ignited in Meg’s heart at the sight, and fire flew from her fingertips. 

She growls, wrapping her fingers around his chin and yanking his face toward hers as she rises to her knees, looming over him. She wasn’t sure where this surge of confidence, this boldness came from, but it flowed from her mouth. “Do you truly think me so cruel? How dare you accuse me of doing such a thing! I may have flaws, Erik, but I am not an evil person! I would never do such a thing to anyone, even if I did hate them!” 

Her temper began to simmer as the blinding whiteness that had overcome her began to leave after her outburst, and the hunger in his eyes stole her breath. He gazed up at her, eyes dilated, his cheek and neck pink, breathing heavily. His lips were parted slightly as he stared, and Meg was nervous when she saw the lust reflected in his features. No, no, she’d wanted him to stop spinning these tales, not stare at her like this! 

Suddenly, he squeezed her hand back, and she forgot everything as his other hand grasps the front of her gown, pulling her closer, and she’d never wanted to steal a kiss so badly. 

“Children, take your fighting outside! Good Heavens! The sun hasn’t even risen yet and you’re already at each other’s throats!” Madame Giry chastises, and little more happens then Meg turning up to meet her mother’s gaze, still panting. 

“What?” She says breathlessly, and her mother’s gaze darts to the hand tightly gripping his chin. 

“Meg, let him go,” she instructs. “No need to start any physical altercations before lunch.” 

He was still boring holes into her skull when she began to pull away, and suddenly, he blinked, and all desire in his eyes were gone. 

“My apologies,” he gasps, his tone gravelly before pulling away, the blonde’s eyes following his figure as he makes a swift exit, closing the door. He leans against the wooden railing outside, elbows resting on the panels. 

“What was it this time, Meg?” Her mother groans, sitting and pinching the bridge of her nose. Guilt was inspired in the dancer at the motion, and she glances away, though still feeling defiant against his words. 

“He accused me of acts untrue to my character,” she explains, crossing her arms. “I have every right to defend myself.”

Madame Giry sighs, patting the spot next to her. Meg rises and sits next to her mother, looking at her lap. 

“I am proud of you for defending yourself, ma choupette, and always, always encourage you to do so. But doubt is a steady, ugly thing in Erik’s mind, and it’s very nearly purged his soul. He has no excuses to be shared, but sympathy must be kept close when judging his actions. If you say you care for him, he’ll twist it in his mind to something horrid.”

Suddenly, his response makes more sense, though she suspects he’d been working it up in his head. Perhaps he’d been thinking about it before? Had she crossed a line by laying with the man the night before? Meg barely remembered the decision. She’d simply awoken, frightened beyond reason and the light extinguishing. But she truly believed Erik would protect her. The closer she was, the safer she was. And besides, once she’d laid her head on his thigh, he’d been so warm. 

“There can’t ever be a normal day for us, eh?” Meg chuckles, shuffling against the couch, leaning back and crossing her legs in front of her. 

“Never,” her mother grins, leaning to kiss her daughter on the scalp. “Now get ready and have your breakfast, little one. You must leave shortly.”

“Okay,” she replies, leaning into her mother's touch. She then stands, silently making her way towards her bag. Glancing toward the front door, assuring herself Erik was still well out there, she slings off her nightgown before throwing her work dress over her undergarments, forgoing a corset. It was much too uncomfortable in working conditions and was difficult to breathe in. 

“There’s croissants and fruit on the table,” her mother says, coming behind Meg with the ornate blush hairbrush. The blonde sits at the table, gathering a croissant and small portion of berries before her mother begins brushing her hair, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. 

“I love you very much, ma choupette,” her mother murmurs, leaning down to kiss her forehead. 

“I love you too, Maman.” 

It was then that Erik entered, significantly less flustered, though his hands were threaded tightly behind his back. 

“At this pace, you’ll be late, Meg,” he says softly, and she rolls her eyes, moving to stand. 

“I quite doubt that. Now, shall we go?” She says, lowering bread and fruit into her basket, knocking back the last of her water.

“Be my guest,” he says lowly, and his baritone makes Meg shiver inwardly. She was glad for the cape that adorned her shoulders, for gooseflesh had broken out on her arms. She couldn’t quite read his emotions, but he seemed grave and stern, and she decided to keep a few feet between them as they descended the stairs. 

“Let me carry that for you,” he offers, though it feels more like an order, slowly taking the basket from her once they reach the bottom. His leather gloves rub against her own bare fingers, and her breath quickens as he takes it from her. 

What was wrong with her? Was she attracted to Erik? Is this what this was? 

She shakes her head, ridding her mind of thoughts of their relationship, unable to focus on anything beyond what was in front of her. She was glad for the freeing of her hands, for the morning air was chilly and she was glad to shove them into the pockets of her dress. 

Their entire walk was silent, though at one point the distance between them had shrank, and her head brushed against his arm. Even still, they didn’t speak. 

Once they made it to the factory, she was surprised to feel his large hand press against her back. She glances up at him, shocked, only to see a group of men leering and moving closer. They were covered head to toe in soot, whistling, and Meg pressed herself closer into Erik’s side. 

“Don’t look,” he warns. “Just keep moving.” 

“Are they looking at me?” She questions, and his jaw stiffens again, and frustration builds in her. 

Once they were far enough away, she rounded on the masked man, crossing her arms. “Were they looking at me?”

He groans, rolling his eyes. “What do you want me to say, Meg? Yes, yes they were.”

“It’s disgusting,” she angrily states. “And don’t roll your eyes at me!” She steps away, the anger fading from her eyes as she crosses her arms over her abdomen. “And there was someone leaning over me . . . What if I had been alone?” 

“Meg, if you don’t feel safe, then we can go back. I don’t want to argue about this - I’ve told you many times that I’d keep you safe.” His tone, Meg noted, was still stern, and she looked away. Had whatever had been happening between them truly been so horrible? To him? Is that why he was frustrated? 

“I apologize for coming across as unfeeling, Meg. I am sympathetic to your fear and anger related to your sex, as much as I can being a man. But you must understand,” he explains, placing his hands on her arms, “that no harm will come to you. And working, Meg, is a risk.” 

“We need the money,” she argues. “We can’t expect to live in a tenement forever, and eventually, we will run out. I am the only one out of us three that can work, Erik. We’ve taken precautions with that decision, so there is truly nothing to worry of in terms of me remaining here.” 

“My, you are something bold today,” he replies, removing his hands from her shoulders as Fleck rears around the corner, a bright grin on her mouth. “I believe your friend is here.”

“Oh!” Meg exclaims, turning in his hands and spotting the ginger, her features lifting. It was nearly enchanting, the way her lips curled at the corners and her eyes crinkled. Wisps of hair had already escaped her rather messily done bun, and Erik found the urge to tuck them back in neatly, though everything waged against him. 

“And Meg,” he continues, placing a single finger beneath her chin as she turned back to him, a gentler parallel to her actions that morning. “Boldness suits you rather well.”

And suddenly, he was granted the very same smile, and his knees felt weak at the sight of joy on her features. It was almost a mockery of his past words, how horribly he’d treated people, just as they’d treated him. How little he knew of comfort, yet she still sought it in him. How little he knew of compliments, yet here she was, joyful of what little he’d given her. 

“I’ll see you this eve, Erik,” she promises, wrapping her fingers around his glove and kissing the leather covering his knuckles before spinning and practically skipping toward Fleck, both girls joining elbows before turning into the factory. 

Despite it all, even approaching the double doors of the dirty factory, she was content.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You and your husband are both very chaste, here,” Fleck grins. “So very unalike to how you were on the ship.”

“Oh, well, I suppose we’re very independent people,” she stutters. “Uh, something rather terrible befell my family and friends and we escaped - no, traveled. My husband tends to splurge on affection and reassurance when unfortunate things befall us.”

“I remember your mother saying something similar . . . do you mind telling me what happened?” The red-head questions, and suddenly shy, Meg folds away. 

“It’s . . . It’s very personal, more so to Etienne that I. Perhaps one day I’ll tell you, when it isn’t so fresh.” And dangerous, she adds in her head. 

“I wouldn’t ever want to push, Meg,” she reassures, and Meg smiles, her shoulder lifting once more. “Now, tell me, are you the same? Only craving affection when times become dark?”

Truthfully, in a romantic sense, she didn’t know. She knew she found comfort in her mother often, and sometimes in Çhristine, though it was more so Meg comforting the brunette. Through those acts, it would sometimes provide the dancer comfort in her own situations. Sorelli defended her from Carlotta rather constantly, and always gave her strength in her failures. 

“I suppose,” she replies, truthfully. “I rather wish he gave me more than what he offers, but I’m not a selfish woman. I wouldn’t ever want to make him uncomfortable.” A snort, and then, “though often, it’s rather amusing the types of things that make him squirm.” 

Something alighted in Fleck’s gaze, and she leans closer, propping her chin on her fist. “I’m living vicariously through you, blondie. If I give you ideas, you must report back.” 

“What on earth do you mean?” Meg questions, shoving the last of her croissant into her mouth. 

“You said he rather likes the night and the stars, correct?” At Meg’s nod, she continues on. “Take him up somewhere, anywhere, tonight, and kiss him. And see what happens from there,” a single green eye winks knowingly. 

The dancer nearly chokes on her food, blushing a deep red. Fleck giggles, leaning closer. “Be a selfish woman, Meg. There’s nothing wrong with it.” 

There was the question again, of what the complexity of her affections were. Her emotions were so frightening and new that, frankly, she entirely wanted to avoid them. Why couldn’t it have been with a dancer at the opera house? Or a boy at her aunt’s countryside manor? Though he was much too old for her, Meg couldn’t deny she’d looked at the lead male perhaps more than what was appropriate. But wasn't Erik older than her too? 

And besides, a kiss couldn’t hurt, right? 

“Oh, Lord,” she says aloud, eyes widening, and Fleck smirks almost darkly. She wanted him to kiss her, didn’t she? 

What kind of woman was she, attracted to a man like him? All friendship aside, romance was certainly different. Much, much different. And would he even return her affections? Erik was absolutely smitten with Christine, and not for the first time, annoyance and jealousy began a fury trek to her heart. 

Perhaps she could get him to speak first, she realized. To kiss her first. Twice now she’d been sure he was going to kiss her, but never did. 

Her heart sped up wickedly, and she was sure it was going to burst from her chest. 

“You’re right,” Meg agrees firmly, dropping the cloth napkin into her basket. “I will be a selfish woman.”

“That’s my girl!” Fleck squeals, wrapping her friend in a hug as Meg bursts into giggles. She felt giddy and nervous, and was almost sure she’d chicken out, but she was set to get him to the roof. Maybe falling asleep on him again would work. 

“Fleck, did you hear about Mrs. Poppins?” A woman, around Sorelli’s age, inquires. Fleck shakes her head no, turning to look at the woman, and then glances around, now noting the disappearance of Mrs. Poppins. 

“Has she even come in today?” Fleck asks, and the women around them fearfully shake their heads. 

“Mrs. Lodens just came back from the station. She was killed early this morning, and a strange letter was left at the crime scene, admitting to the murder. It was signed by someone named ‘Jack’.” 

Meg’s heart dropped, now suddenly regretting not turning around this morning. She glances up at the clock, near the Head’s office, and sees Fleck’s grandfather staring down at the group of gossiping women, seeking out Meg’s gaze and holding her in a cold, dead stare. His eyes were something gruesome, something haunted. He looked to be around the age of eighty, an incredible feight. But oh, Meg noticed, did he look like a ghost just then. 

She looks away, chilled to the bone, and shifts closer to Fleck, winding her arms around her friend’s. Glancing toward the door, she considers making a break for it, sprinting home to her mother and Erik. But money was money, murder or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all enjoyed! don't forget to leave a comment and let me know what you thought!
> 
> and since i know you all have been waiting so patiently for a kiss, I PROMISE, one is coming. in fact, it's already written down *wink* *wink*. 
> 
> i love you all! and i hope you enjoyed the little sexy sexy in the morning and the almost kissy kissy. :)


	16. chapter sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG!!! IS IT REALLY ME???? UPDATING ON TIME???? 
> 
> anyways, good morning, afternoon, or whatever it is for you! i hope you have a fantastic day. it's really sunny and warm today, so i'm hoping all of you lovely readers have good weather today as well :).
> 
> please enjoy!

The day went by agonizingly slow, and by the time they were released, Meg had never fled from a building as quickly as she did when she saw the familiar white mask. Glancing behind her to make sure no one saw her exit, she bids goodbye to Fleck before running to the other side, stalking into the shadowy alley. 

“Erik, there was another -”

“Murder, I know,” he finishes, holding up a hand. “Our dear neighbors, the doctors, were the ones that had found the body.”

“That’s horrible,” Meg murmurs, face dropping and wrapping her arms around herself. “Did she have a husband? Children?” 

“Yes,” he replies, and the blonde sighs, glancing toward the ground. “She’s suspected to have been having an affair, and for quite some time now.”

Meg quirks an eyebrow, looking up now. “Where’d you find out about that?”

“All you women do is gossip. It simply wasn’t all that hard to eavesdrop.”

“Ah, yes, one of your many talents,” she jokes, shoving his shoulder mockingly. “And rude. You men aren’t much better.” 

He chuckles lowly, his baritone spiraling deep in her stomach as he nudges her to continue down the alley. Despite Meg trying to lighten the mood, the absolute horror of everything happening so fast was beginning to weigh heavily upon her. But she found it was easier to shove it down and let it bother her than to confront it. 

“Why are we going this way?” She questions, turning to glance down the alley. His hand sprawls across her lower back, and she warms, remembering the promise she’d made to herself earlier. 

“Just a quick thing. We’ll be in and out in a snap,” he promises, and reluctantly and disappointedly, she agrees. 

Ah, well. As long as Maman didn’t mind them a few minutes late. 

They approach a theater, shaped vastly different from the one in Paris, square and cubical. Erik opens the door for them both, Meg slipping in before him and trailing close behind. 

The inside was entirely unique, carpeted steps, velvety curtains, and a rounded common room. The walls and ceiling were gilded, and a large chandelier hung from the center, sloping and arching elegantly. There were also lights, Meg saw, around the room, and she realized quickly that it was electricity. 

A man greets them immediately, casting only a brief glance at Erik’s mask before holding his hand out. He seemed to be around the same age as Erik, though blonde hair, darker than Meg’s, swept over his scalp. His dressing was impeccable, very alike to Erik, down to the italian shoes. The man was handsome, emeralds in his eyes and roses in his cheeks. 

“Good evening, Sir,” he greets, holding out a hand, and Erik shakes his it, seeming surprised. 

“And you must be mademoiselle?” The man turns to her, lifting her palm and kissing the back of it, though it was filthy. Meg giggles and grins, her eyes following his greeting, and she feels Erik stiffen beside her. Quite frankly, she had no idea what he was saying, but the English was simple enough to follow along. 

“My wife, Marguerite,” Erik introduces her, mildly unimpressed. “She doesn’t speak much English, though I wouldn’t underestimate her ability to learn.”

“Well please tell her that it’s lovely to make her acquaintance,” he smirks, and Meg blushes, releasing her hand and settling it down by her stomach. How forward and charming these American men were! 

“I’d like to have a discussion with you privately and review some of your compositions and ideas. You are here for the ghost-writing position, yes?” He inquires. 

“I would be honored. And yes, Mr. Hammerstein,” Erik replies, his tone kind and sultry. 

“Nonsense! Call me Oscar,” he waves off, gesturing down the hallway. Erik offers his arm and Meg rushes up to his side, twining her arm with his. The two men, one whom she heard ‘Mr. Hammerstein’ and ‘Oscar’ talked rather quickly and excitedly, and Erik spoke with him with the same fervor in a way that made Meg melt. So rarely was he anything but broody, and she adored this side of him. She found herself reaching up her other arm to affectionately squeeze the space just above his elbow.

Mr. Hammerstein - or Oscar, she’d have to ask Erik later - stops then, and gives something instructional to the masked man and points toward a room. 

“What did he say?” Meg asks, and the masked man leads her toward the room, which she found was another lobby, almost a replica, though smaller and comfier. 

“We’ll be back in a moment. You’re welcome to anything in here, except the sour bites, I guess. Set aside some of those chocolate cherries, would you?” 

“Erik, they’ll melt,” she chuckles, letting go of his elbow to stand before him. “Maman is rather spectacular at making them - maybe if you ask nicely, she’ll splurge for your birthday,” she teases. 

“Your mother’s are simply divine,” he emphasizes, and that statement was a sudden reminder of how much was still unknown when he’d first come to the opera house. His gaze became serious, then. “If anyone tries anything, Meg, or if you even think it’s the hooded man, scream as loud as you can.”

“Alright,” she promises, and as he’s leaving, she calls out to him, one last time. 

“You’re auditioning, right? You’re playing the pianoforte for him?” She asks, and he nods, crossing his hands behind him. 

“What? Are you going to wish me luck?” He jokes, grinning, and Meg’s gaze nearly slips to those curved lips. 

“Knock his socks off, Opera Boy,” she smiles, and it was intoxication, how the simple encouragement made his shoulders lift, his eyes sparkle, and the grin grew larger. Though she disliked pride, it was a sinful look on his features.

“As if my confidence needs stoking.” And though she certainly knew that, it felt good to encourage him, even if he was a musical genius. She winked at him, and was delighted to see the blush on his cheek as he turned, and Oscar laughed aloud at the redness of his skin as they moved along down the hall. 

After eating several of the delicious cherries, generously tossed in chocolate, she observes the room, finding a small room tucked in the back. Glancing nervously behind her to check for intruders, she hurries over, wiping her fingers on her dress. 

Inside was a pianoforte, folders and sheets of music scattered across the top and piled on the seat. Reaching and grabbing some of the sheets, she recognized several adagios, and she was suddenly reminded of the horrible, horrible adage combinations her and Christine had done growing up. It was a nostalgic pain, but it made her smile sadly at the memories. 

Though she certainly didn’t have perfect pitch, she sat at the piano, and began humming through the notes, plucking out the vocal melodies before slowly sight-reading through the underlying piano harmonies. It was a beautiful piece, almost like a fairytale, and the blonde fell into the music, loving it immensely. She couldn’t read the English, and it was a difficult language to sound out, so she simply opened her vowels and followed along. 

So wrapped up in the work, she didn’t notice the two men entering, and she certainly didn’t notice the heated look from the masked man, trailing over her figure as if transfixed. When she’d finished, the two men clapped and she turned, startled, hands clasping nervously in her lap. A blush spread across her neck, and Erik looked at her the same as he had that morning. 

“It truly wasn’t anything special. My sight-reading is horrid,” she begins, but Erik cuts her off. 

“I never knew you could read music,” he says hoarsely, and she shrugs, glancing back toward the piece and smiling softly. 

“Could you tell him this piece is beautiful? It reminded me of my childhood in Paris. It’s almost like a fairytale,” she sighs, and after a brief muttering, Hammerstein steps forward. 

“He wants you to sing it,” Erik says, a strange look gracing his face, something akin to jealousy and pride. “He wants you to perform here, in his theater.” 

“O-Oh,” Meg stutters, looking back. Something wickedly wonderful blooms in her chest, fingers shaking from adrenaline as she gazes at the two men. Oh, how she wanted to say yes! She’d wanted to be Prima Donna more than anything, even though she’d had little to no vocal training, but it had simply not been meant to be. Was this why? Was this what she was meant to do instead?

But Erik had promised her the same thing, to make her the star of his own show. And though Oscar was certainly farther along that he was, she couldn’t imagine performing anyone else’s works than his. 

“I-I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have a commitment elsewhere. I’m flattered though, truly,” she replies, spinning around the piano bench. 

“He says that a position will always be open for you, and you’d, well, you’d be closer to me, here,” Erik says, and though the idea makes her heart soar, especially performing again, dancing again, never working at the factory again, it was nothing compared to thought of opening for Erik. 

The man in question comes forward, offering her a hand, and Meg takes it gratefully, and he wraps it around her arm. 

“Thank you, Oscar, for the position,” he says with a tight grin, though Meg could tell there was something joyful in him in having a creative outlet once more. 

They bid each other goodbye, and once they’re ushered out the door, the blonde bends over with giggles, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. 

“What on earth are you laughing for?” Erik questions, and Meg can barely catch her breath to reply. 

“We aren’t even married, Erik. There’s no reason to be jealous, and he’s not the type of man I’d go for anyway,” she gets out, wiping the tears that had escaped from her eyes. 

Her emotions suddenly shift when he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t reply, and his face becomes stony. Though his emotions were difficult to sometimes understand, Meg found herself taken aback. 

“I honestly thought it was all a show, Erik. I . . I don’t know what that was back there, but I’m not actually your wife, Erik. Though, though I would like to talk about this morning, because -”

“It was a mistake,” he cuts her off, and it stuns her into silence, all fantasies of kissing him in the moonlight flashing away. “It won’t happen again, I assure you.” 

His words were a burning knife, cutting deeply into her chest. It was then that she knew that if those words could affect her so deeply, there was a forbidden attraction to him. But it mattered not, did it? He was either still stuck on Christine, or there was no such feelings for her. 

Meg keeps a distance between them as they wander home, silence separating them even further. It felt like hundreds of years, the way back, and any fear of death was simply erased, a solemn and heavy feeling settling into her. She honestly hadn’t a clue how she kept tears at bay, but there was her own anger and own jealousy, and she supposed it had something to do with that. 

She cuts in front of him, sprinting up the stairs, and before she can open the plain, white door, his arm comes around, closing it shut, blocking her with his body.

“Leave me be,” she demands, wrenching the door handle, but he was stronger and heavier than her. With an angry sigh, she slides her hand away from the knob, crossing her arms and refusing to look at him. 

“I feel as if you are mad at me,” he announces, and she nearly rolls her eyes. She hated herself for his next words, knowing how much she preached of communication, but she felt hurt, so hurt, and there were no other words to be said. She considered, for a moment, kissing him to stun him into silence. Fleck wanted her to kiss him, then fine. But as she turned toward him, murder and something lustful in her eyes. He was hunched over her, confusion in his eyes - which frustrated her even more - but then narrowed to a glare at her own. No, she wouldn’t kiss him. She’d be angry if he did so to her right now. 

“Congratulations on the job. You should be very proud of yourself. It is an excellent and esteemed position.” Her tone was bare and forced, and with that, he removed his arm, and she quickly hurried inside. 

That night, there was only silence between them, and Madame Giry knew better than to ask. Her daughter seemed devastated and angry, and Erik seemed the same, though perhaps more confused. Her heart hammered at the thought of Meg romantically involving herself with Erik, though she told herself it wasn’t the case. 

When Meg lays down, she feels the tears she’d pushed away earlier rise, and she pulls the blankets over her head. Tears stream down her face as she covers her mouth with her hand, though she remained silent. 

Early in the morning, when Erik wakes, he is nearly disappointed to find that Meg wasn’t curled beside him, warmth pressing against his leg. When he cautiously looks up to find her sleeping figure, his heart skips a beat when he saw her chest shutter, and her breathing quicken and slow at an uneven pace. 

He crawls over to her, turning her onto her back, and finds her face to be bright red and feverish, sweating and writhing in pain in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moment of silence for erik's last two working brain cells. he's a dummy, but he's our dummy and we love him anyway. 
> 
> if you enjoyed, don't hesitate to comment/review or leave kudos! they always help motivate me to write more chapters :).


	17. chapter seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anyways when will i stop beating up my characters? idk but here’s some drugged up meg and worried erik

Swearing loudly enough to wake the Madame, he places a palm over her forehead, the expanse of scarlet skin slicked with sweat and burning hot. 

“Antoinette!” He yells, rousing her, though she was already awake, horrified at the sight of the feverish blonde. She immediately jumps off of the couch, moving with inhuman speed toward the door with Fleur and George, the two of them also awake from Erik’s vulgar surprise. 

“Injured and now this? Good Lord, Meg,” he murmurs, lifting the groaning dance into his arms, and she groans at the movement. “My apologies,” he grunts as she writhes, uncomfortable from his body heat and moving to clutch her stomach. 

The bedroom door is flung open for him as he lays her on the bed, still not familiar with her weight on his limbs though it was becoming rather routine. He watches as she curls into herself, arms wrapping around her abdomen and tears forced from her eyelids squeezing closed. He wondered, then, if this was her monthly, and he felt rather foolish for a second, but it couldn’t be this bad, could it? And the way her mother reacted was rather frightening. No, he suspected, it was something else. 

“Fetch a damp towel,” Madame Giry orders, pointing toward the door, and though he was loath to leave, he did so, gathering a bleached towel and running to the public bathrooms, running the towel under the cold faucet. He returns quickly, his mind a rare, blank expanse. 

George was holding Robin in the main room, casting a sympathetic look at Erik, though the masked man doesn’t stop until he’s in the doorway. The man could barely see the girl, with the two older women standing around her, and he saw the soaked dress being removed from her shoulder and slid off of her body. 

He offers the mother the towel, almost stunned to see the ferocity and desperation in her actions as she snatches the object from him, gently but frantically wiping her heated skin. His chest was a heavy pain, jarring and excruciating as he stood there, rather helpless and almost useless. He moves to the other side of the bed, wanting to watch her, to reassure himself that her chest was still rising and falling. 

She wore very little, though it was difficult to focus on anything but her curled form, hands pressed tightly against her stomach. Golden hairs stuck to her forehead and cheeks, thick moisture under her nose and wetness under her eyes. 

What had she done? Had someone done something to her? Had Fleck done something? No, he thinks. Though it wasn’t unlikely that she could have caught the flu at the factory, it was strange how she held her stomach. 

His eyes widened at that realization, rushing up to the bed and batting hands away, ignoring the angrily flung wet towel at him. Leaning a knee against the bed, looming over her, he grabs her chin, fingers on her side of her mouth. She whimpers, arching away from his touch, and he loosened his grip around her jaw. “I’ll be gentle if you comply,” he promises softly. 

“Oh, how kind of you,” Fleur hisses. “You will not touch her harshly!” 

“Open the window,” he says, running his shirt sleeve over her cheeks to remove the sticky tears and under the nose for the thicker moisture there. Fleur and the Madame stare at each other, and Erik raises his face, and angrily bellows, “Need I repeat myself again? Open the window!”

“Respect, boy!” Madame Giry chastises, but runs over to open the pale curtains anyway, light pouring into the room. As he suspected, there was a redness around her lips, and with a shocked sniff, he recognized them as burns. He leans down further, their faces close, and detects something heavy and metallic on her breath, like chemicals. 

Like poison. 

Once, a long time ago, he’d found himself in a similar situation, writhing and feverish in bed from poisoning. Nadir had stayed with him, tending and medicating him, nursing him back to health. With a racing heart, he remembers how close to death he had been, barely hanging on, and he nearly broke at the thought of this feisty ballerina dying, regardless of whatever temper she’d had the night before. He suspected he wasn’t entirely blameless either. 

So she’d been poisoned. But where? When? How? Had it been at the factory? Had Felicity given her something, or had any of the other women? Had she mentioned anyone else? Was it their stalker? Had she said anything strange or alarming yesterday? 

He grits his teeth. Was this a warning to him? 

“For God’s sake, Erik, what’s wrong with her?” Her mother asks desperately, angrily, tears running down her cheeks. He looked up at her, then, frowning. 

“Poison, Antoinette.” What had Nadir used, then, to heal him? “We need charcoal.”

“Poisoned?” The Madame gasps, hands covering her mouth in horror as she reels. 

“The neighbors below us are doctors. Perhaps they’ll have charcoal to treat her,” Fleur says, warily glancing at Erik, though her eyes mainly focused on his fingers wrapped around her jaw. 

“Then there’s no time to waste!” He quickly wraps the girl in the blanket, handling her until she was wrapped in it, and lifts her once again into his arms, nearly trembling. 

In the next moment, he was flying out of the tenement, hurrying down the stairs, Madame Giry and Fleur close behind. Adjusting Meg in his arms, he lifts his fist to knock on the door, and a tired, middle-aged couple answered the door. 

“My wife . . . poison,” is all he can get out before their eyes widen and open the door farther for the group. 

“Maman,” the girl in his arms wheezes, more tears blurring her vision, and he shushes her. 

“Don’t speak, Meg,” he murmurs lowly, moving to lay her on the bed before moving to the arm of the furniture, kneeling down behind her. She seemed worse, perhaps from the movement and from the chilled outside air. He glanced up just in time to see the doctors flying toward them, but his attention returned back to the blonde as she began to dry-heave. 

“Turn her on her side,” the woman announces, eyes drifting over his mask briefly before returning with a bucket. Erik comes to kneel beside the girl, drifting a hand beneath her and one of her side before flipping her so she rests against her hip. 

She became sick in the bucket after that, and Erik backed away as Fleur and Madame Giry ran to attend to her. Though she was much calmer than he, he saw tears in the mother’s eyes, and that same, overwhelming panic began to swirl. 

“Have her drink this. The whole glass,” the man told him, offering water in a metal cup, and he grabs it, once again kneeling behind the girl as her mother hurries to gather another damp towel. Everything goes quiet around him as he focuses on her again, moving to be more beside her and once again sliding an arm beneath her neck. 

“Alright, come here, just like that,” he murmurs, propping her up against him and easing the lip of the cup between her own. At first, she squirmed away, but after a dribble ran down her chin, her mouth opened wider to allow more water in. Trembling hands covered his one holding the cup as she gulped it down. 

“Good girl,” he says, shifting to press a cool hand against her neck. Her lips part as she settles back down, though she whimpers again, clutching her stomach as she begins to dry heave once more. 

“She’s not keeping it down,” he worries loudly, turning toward the two doctors, still frantically searching through their medical cases. “Do something!”

“Monsieur, you need to calm down,” the woman says gently, now pulling something wrapped in parchment from a black case. “I believe it’s right here.” 

Though he had a small knowledge of medicine, he knew the longer the poison remained untouched in her system, the closer to death she would be. He didn’t know if he believed in God, found it simply easier to doubt His existence than to hate Him, but for the first time in nearly two decades, he prayed. If Meg came out unscathed, he would be good. He promised he would be good for the rest of his life, only if Meg survived and their horrid stalker left her alone. 

Both the man and the woman now came upon them, telling Erik to move. The woman wiped away the sick from Meg’s mouth before forcing her jaw open, shoving a small capsule into her mouth. The brunette runs a finger gently down the front of her throat, forcing her to swallow. The girl moans, rolling toward the other side, facing away from the group, and Erik comes to her aid once more, pulling the blanket back up to her shoulders. Madame Giry murmurs something about getting Meg clean clothes before promptly leaving, swiping at her eyes. Fleur follows her out, and with their disappearance, he gazes back towards Meg, kneeling. 

“Monsieur,” the woman says behind him, and he turns, glancing over his shoulder. She handed him a small pot of something, smelling strong and minty, even when closed. 

“Ointment?” He questions, and the woman nods, crossing her arms as he retrieved the medical substance. 

“Rub it in circular motions on her stomach once to twice a day, preferably before she eats in the morning. I would suggest using the entire thing, even if she begins feeling better before it’s out. Also, morphine -“

“No. No morphine,” he interrupts, turning back to Meg, returning to neatly arrange the blanket about her. 

“Now, Monsieur, I understand your worries behind it, as it is an extremely addictive substance, but when used in careful portions and for medical reasons-“

“Absolutely not,” he argues, his fists clenching around the pink blanket. “Nothing of the sort will be allowed near her. Am I understood?”

“Monsieur, the treatment and the ointment will help with the healing process, but if she does not get adequate sleep, even if it’s induced, then she will not recover quickly. In fact, she may even take a turn for the worse,” the woman explains calmly. 

Erik knew she was right, and he felt foolish for arguing with the doctor, but the fear he had for Meg following down his path was even more frightening.

“One week,” he compromises, finishing the blanket and resting his hands against the edge of the couch, near Meg’s. 

“That will be more than enough. I was going to suggest four to five days, and only small doses in the evenings after she’s eaten,” the woman concludes, and Erik nods reluctantly. 

“I’ll gather the materials for it. I sincerely believe your wife will be fine, Monsieur. You’re lucky you found out so quickly what had happened.”

“Yes . . . . Yes, I suppose so,” he replies, softly. At that moment, Madame Giry and Fleur enter, holding one of Meg’s nightgowns. Though he’s already seen the girl in her undergarments, he turns to give her privacy, now feeling burdened and heavy with the past and the present. 

“Monsieur, if you don’t mind me asking,” the male begins, stalking closer, but Erik sends him a withering gaze. 

“If it’s about the mask, then I assure you, I will mind.” 

“Etienne,” Madame Giry says, glancing at the couple before coming up behind him, placing a hand on his arm. “I asked if he would look at your deformity.” 

“It would be rather pleasant, Madame, if you would stop betraying me,” he hisses, pulling away, but she holds fast. 

“There may be options, my boy, for your face,” she says quietly, and Erik spins on her, curious eyes searching hers before finding the man’s. 

“Must you look? Can’t you offer me options without studying my face like some sort of science experiment?” 

“It’s alright, Etienne. Let them look,” the mother says, patting his back and leading him toward the dining table. There, they sit, and when he’s asked to remove the mask, he flinches away, but a motherly hand grabs his own. 

“They aren’t going to hurt you,” she promises gently, and at last, he gives in, shakily removing the mask and squeezing her hand tightly. 

He closes his eyes against the stares, but after a moment of silence, his eyes open, surprised not to hear screams and curses flung at him. 

“You are not disgusted?” He whispers, shocked, and the woman standing before him arches an elegant eyebrow. 

“To be frank, I’ve seen much worse. And it seems your hair has hid most of it. I suspect there is a significant deformity around your scalp area, and it seems to travel even farther back than that,” she observes, bending down to observe him more closely. 

A trembling hand reaches up to brush the ink curls away from the side of his head to reveal a crumpled, misshapen ear. He didn’t seem to have an earlobe, and the entire shape was pressed, resting nearly flat against his scalp. The top half was folded down, just barely revealing allowing an entrance for sound. 

“And your hearing is intact?” She says, coming around to his side, and Erik began to slump his shoulders, uncomfortable with the questions and being so bared and vulnerable. Especially with Meg only a dozen feet away. 

“I believe so,” he mutters, letting go of his curls and allowing them back into their place. She doesn’t ask to see the gaping hole near the top of his forehead, where skin seems to be missing. After a thorough observation and many more questions, she stands back up straight, and Erik hurriedly returns the mask to its rightful home. 

“Unfortunately, I don’t believe there is much to do for your ear,” she admits, which Erik shrugs off. He kept his hair long, to hide some of the deformity near his hairline and forehead, though it certainly didn’t hide most of it. It did, however, do an excellent job concealing his disfigured ear. 

“There may be a way to remove the skin beneath your lip, but the scarring will be significant and permanent. The same with the rest of your deformity. There’s a method used with skin grafting, removing skin from elsewhere on your body to cover some of your deformity. That, however, will be painful and expensive. There will still be significant scarring left behind, but there will be an improvement.” 

“And my eye?” He says, touching the cheek of his mask. Beneath lay the drooping eyelid, skin missing around the socket. It still functioned as an eyelid did, but the crease was nearly flattened and wrinkled, almost like it had been burned and melted.

“It could be lifted, but I wouldn’t recommend any procedure around your eyes,” she suggests, clasping her hands. 

It was strange to him how she could be so clinical, so simple about it. His face had been something to be jeered out, to be yelled at, to be feared. Before he could reply, however, a pained moan filled the air, and the attention returned to Meg. 

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” she winced as the man gently led the needle into her elbow before injecting her, to which she winced, curling her toes. “Ow, ow, ow, oh! OW! Could you not?” A beat as the needle is removed from her, and the effect is almost immediate, her eyelids beginning to droop. 

“Not so bad, was it?” The man chuckles, and she grunts in reply, pulling the blankets higher, albeit weakly. 

“Erik?” She murmurs, and his eyes lift to her body, and Madame Giry notices the immediate lift in his shoulders. 

“Etienne, dear,” he calls back, and she smiles serenely, giggling. 

“Oh yeah, I remember!” She exclaims, turning onto her stomach, her eyes closed. “Don’t get that silly procedure,” she slurs, her words beginning to run together. “You don’t need it.” 

He laughs, almost mockingly. “And why do you think that, dear?” 

“Ilikeyoujustthewayyouare . . .” she says, her voice low and relaxed, before falling asleep a few moments later, her breaths deepening. 

“Well that’s certainly very sweet of her to say,” Madame Giry blurts out, her tone tight and sickly sweet, almost accusing. “Wouldn’t you say so, Etienne?” 

“Yes, yes, very sweet,” he stammers, standing quickly and releasing her hand. Something warm and sweet spread in his chest at her words, and he struggled to think of anything but. “Anyways, we should be heading back. Thank you Madame . . . ?”

“You can call me Natalie,” she smiles, and her husband comes up behind her with the ointment pot he’d forgotten and the morphine kit. “Free of charge. I certainly don’t think she asked to be poisoned.” 

He clears his throat, hastily shoving the ointment into his back pocket and grabbing the morphine. “Thank you,” is all he says before hurrying over to Meg, placing the morphine on her stomach before reaching his hands beneath her, cradling her figure to his chest. He hurried out the door, wanting to be as far away from the Madame as he could possibly be for perhaps the rest of his life. If there was anyone to be frightened of, it was her. 

After he’d set her on the bed, he’d nearly sprinted from the room, toward the roof, and stayed up there for the remainder of the day. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The next time she woke, she was comfortable and warm, though not in the bed or on the couch. It was difficult, focusing on one thing and even bringing feeling to her limbs, but she eventually concluded that she was laying on pillows, swaddled in blankets, on the floor. Oh, if only she’d thought of this before! She wouldn’t wake with aches and pains in her back and neck. She wondered if it has been Erik’s idea, and a lazy grin spread over her face. 

“Hello, dear,” a voice says beside her, and she turns her head with difficulty, only to find Fleur smiling softly down at her. 

“Hi!” She exclaims, frowning at how difficult it was to form words. “Where’s . . . Maman?”

“She’s outside with Erik right now. They were having an argument, though I suspect it wasn’t something they wanted you to hear. Nor me, I fear.”

“He’s so smart! Did you know he’s a genius? He draws, and composes, and he made me costumes!” Meg gushed. “And he smells wonderful, too. Don’t you think so? But his home smelled like . . . like the factory, but worse. He almost smells like Papa, but Papa always smelled like the sea.” She gasps as a memory enters her thoughts. “Did you know that, one time, when Papa was visiting grandmother in London, he got me a wonderful book? It’s called ‘Frankenstein’. Have you ever read it? Erik likes it. Do you think Erik would like to kiss me?” 

“I’m sure he would, dear. And while that’s all very interesting, you do need to eat and take your medication,” Fleur says gently, patiently, and Meg groans, falling back against the pillows. 

“Can I have pasta?” She asks, pouting, and the woman chuckles, shaking her head.

“I’m afraid all we have is bread, though today, we were also given butter. Your husband seemed to enjoy it just fine, so I suspect it isn’t poisoned.” Meg gasps at that, jaw unhinging. 

“How terribly rude! Who would want to poison us?” But just then, a very annoyed Erik and angry Madame Giry enter the tenement, and an ear-splitting smile crosses Meg’s mouth. 

“Erik! We were just talking about you!” Meg gushes, trying to sit upright, with Fleur’s help. 

“I hope nothing too horrible,” he grumbles, and Meg giggles, watching as he collapses against the couch. 

She continues to ramble about memories of her Papa and of Erik’s skills, to which the same warm feeling as before returned. After eating, Madame Giry comes over to lay a wool blanket over her, and she falls asleep quickly. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She awakes next to yelling, and the shushing of a woman. She tries to open her eyes further, but it proves to be much too difficult of a task. 

“I’ll tear him limb from limb, mark my words, Giry!” He shouts, and at the rich, resonant timbre, she recognizes it to be Erik. The woman shushes him again - her mother, she realizes - though she suspects he won’t calm. 

“Keep your voice down, young man!” She ridicules, and she hears a heavy breath leave him, and then the slumping of a body against a chair. 

“She won’t be returning to the factory, Erik. We’ll find something else to keep her out of harm’s way,” Madame Giry promises. “But could she have been poisoned in the factory?” 

“Did she share any food or drink with anyone? Perhaps it was her friend, Felicity,” he growls, bunching the cloth of his trousers. 

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so, Erik. Meg may remember something when she’s fully conscious and sober, but we must be patient. And if it is Felicity, it will be crushing to her,” her mother explains gently. 

They continue to debate on the origin of her poisoning, but heaviness weighed on her mind again, and she was deep asleep once again. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The next time she awoke was to soft sobbing, muffled and shaking, and this time, she forced herself to peel her eyes open. It was difficult to process the scene, but after a few moments, she found that her overall vision and focus improved. 

Erik was crumpled on the floor, face buried in his hands as he weeped, and Madame Giry knelt beside him, rubbing his back. A letter was clutched in his hands, crisp and new and fresh, and from this angle, she could tell it was written in French. After a few moments of coaxing, he eventually releases it to her mother. The blonde watches her mother’s eyes skim over the letter, and her face drops, nearing the end. 

“Oh, my boy,” she murmurs, and Erik snatches it from her, his face full of grief and anger, and Meg was terrified by the expression on his face. He rips it in half before crumbling it, throwing it harshly against the closed door, still on his knees. 

“Who sent it?” He whispers, shaking. “It was forwarded to you . . . who forwarded it?”

“The Vicomte de Chagny, through the explicit instructions of Christine,” she explains, and it seemed to make him whither all the more. 

“So she knows, then.” 

“Yes, Erik, she does. She sent a personal letter along with it, but it was addressed to Meg,” she replies. “She does not know you are here, if that’s what you’re wondering. It was rather bold of her to assume I would know how to contact you, or that you were even still alive.” 

“May I see it?” He asks, his voice hoarse and quiet, but her mother shakes her head. 

“I respected your privacy by not opening the letter addressed to you. Give Meg the same,” she replies gently.

He’s wracked with sobs again, and Madame Giry embraces him tightly, crying into her shoulder. 

Meg desperately wanted to comfort him, wanted to ask what had happened, but exhaustion won out again, and she drifted. 

A couple of hours later, deep into the night, she woke to hear her mother and Fleur whispering rapidly to each other, almost heatedly, though neither sounded mad. They both sounded worried, though she wasn’t sure as of why. 

They left after a few minutes, and Meg groans, rolling over with great effort, only to nearly land on Erik’s head. In the darkness, as she opens her eyes, she can make out the mask sitting on the nightstand, the deformed part of his face pressed against the mattress. She sees trails of fresh tears on his cheek, though he was asleep. He couldn’t have been comfortable, bent over, half-way in the chair and half-way on the bed, but somehow, he seemed to have dozed off. 

Meg hums, reaching for the back of his hand and curling her fingers around it, before closing her eyes once more. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Meg, wake up,” a scratchy voice says, gentle hand shaking her shoulders, and she wakes with a cry. She pries her eyes open, a white mask looming above her, and she latches onto his shirt sleeves. 

“The same dream . . . I was dancing with Papa, but you and Maman were in red and I was in yellow, and then you were gone, you jumped off the side and I couldn’t find you . . .” She inhales deeply, pushing her fear down now that she was awake.

“The one with the clock?” He questions, his voice stripped, as if he’d been crying. She nods, and he sighs, moving to sit perpendicular to her on the bed. 

“Your body is beginning to become accustomed to the morphine,” he murmurs, reaching to retrieve the kit. “But mind you, I’m not increasing your dosage, regardless of your progress.” He seemed so drained, so tired, and her heart wept for him. 

“How long have I been sick?” She asks, and as she tries to sit up, dizziness overcomes her, and her stomach begins to spasm painfully. 

“It’s been nearly five days. This is the first time you’ve actually awoken.”

“Erik, are you alright?” She asks softly, cautiously gazing up at him as he filled the syringe with the drug. 

“This should be enough for tonight,” he croaks, his fingers wrapping about her elbow, but she stops him, grabbing his wrist. 

“Will you count down?” She asks, shivering at the feel of his ring pressing against her skin. 

“From three?”

“From five,” she says, and the small quirk of a smile lifts the corner of his lips, but only for a moment. 

“As you wish,” he agrees, and she nods, squeezing her eyes shut, her other hand fisting into the bedsheets. 

“Five, four, three,” he begins, but on three, he plunges the needle into her skin, and she moans in pain, nearly jerking away, but he holds her there, before removing the syringe. 

“You agreed to five!” 

“If you relax, it doesn’t hurt as badly,” is all he replies with, now toneless, and stares at the morphine strangely before hastily shoving it in the bottom drawer. 

“You look awful,” she murmurs. She could see the circles beneath his eyes and the red rings about them in the moonlight, and reached up to cup his cheek, but he pulled away. 

“You’ll have to be more specific, my dear,” he says, a dark chuckle lacing his voice, and she shivers at the fear it sent through her. 

“You look like you’ve been crying,” she observes, and he turns away from her, facing the window directly. 

“I’m fine,” is all he replies with, but she can see the slight tremble of his fingers as they lace in his lap, his gaze lowering to the ground. 

“You can talk to me, Erik,” she says, groaning as she sits up, moving toward him. “About anything. Seeing you this way upsets me.”

“Is that another characteristic of friendship?” He questions, and she nods, moving to settle behind him. Her knees cradle his thighs and she leans against him, wrapping her arms around his abdomen beneath his arms. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, though he doesn’t move away, so she lays her head upon his shoulder, now resting her full weight against him with a sigh. He was warm from sleep, and she rather wanted to rest for the night like this. 

“Hugging you,” she replies simply, pressing herself tighter against his back. “You’re sad.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but the longer that she holds him, the more his muscles seem to relax. She smiles, nuzzling his shoulder. 

“Are you upset because of me? Because someone poisoned me?” She questions, her speech beginning to slur as the morphine entered her system. 

“Don’t flatter yourself too much,” he jokes, though he does so humorlessly. “But you did scare me, my dear.”

“Was it the letter, then?” She mumbles, and he stiffens, turning his head toward her own, his lips nearly colliding with her forehead. 

“What do you know about that?”

“Or is it because I ate the last croissant?” She says, now giggling, and he sighs, his neck now forward again. 

“I see the morphine is working again,” he replies, to which she hums happily, inhaling his scent. 

“I feel really good,” she slurs, and he chuckles, craning his head to gaze at her again. 

“I’m sure you do, Meg.”

“Did I make you feel better?” She asks, eyelids beginning to droop, and she feels hands against hers on his abdomen. 

“More than you know,” he whispers. “More than you know.”

She’d already fallen asleep at this point, and he turns just enough to capture her scalp with his hand, easing her back onto the bed. He moves from her knees, swinging the blonde’s legs back under the blankets. 

“G’night . . .” She hums as he pulls away, and he smiles sadly down at the girl. Again, he found himself overseeing her in the moonlight, the artist in him trailing through his veins and sparking in his fingertips. She was so beautiful like this, twisted in the blankets, golden hair fanned on the pillow, dry lips parted just barely. That deep-seated affection squirmed deep within him, and he had half a mind to crawl in with her. 

Instead, he returns to his chair, laying his head back down against the mattress, tossing the mask back to the side. His last thoughts weren’t of grief, weren’t of pain, but were instead of soft touches and unspoken intimacy. Melodies drummed beneath his fingertips as he laid his hands on the bed, but soon succumbed to the same black touch that Meg had, chasing her into her dreams, dancing and singing and laughing with her there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoyed! and btw drunk & wholesome meg is my new fav 
> 
> also, a question for you guys. you can either let me know here or on tumblr, but i thought it’d be fun to write a spooky merik (is that they’re ship name?? idk) for halloween! it would probably be under ten chapters, but my chapters tend to get pretty long, as im sure you guys know XD. would any of you be interested in reading something like that? 
> 
> thank you so much for reading! and as a little teaser for next week, meg stumbles upon something she shouldn’t 👀


	18. chapter eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and now everything else is sunshine and rainbows and meg and erik run through strawberry fields and sing silly songs with larry 
> 
> JUST KIDDING :) more of the author being mean because my plot said so XD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blondie is drugged up and grumpy has a change of heart

“She ate chocolate cherries last night . . . Rather sinful that they weren’t yours, but fate tends to be cruel.” 

“I don’t think so. Why on earth would Hammerstein have reason to poison her, if he offered her a job?”

“I’ll go to the factory. I’ll figure this out.”

“Erik, no. It doesn’t matter. She won’t be returning there.” 

Meg slowly awakens, her throat dry and sore, limbs heavy. With great effort, her eyelids flutter open, and she groans, reaching for the nightstand with the glass of water. As if on cue, Erik quickly stood and crossed the room, gently wrapping his hands around her and helping her against the side of the headboard. 

“Water,” she croaks, and he grabs the cup for her, handing it to the blonde and watches as she struggles to hold it against her lips. Hearing no movement behind him from Madame Giry, he hesitantly leans forward, grabbing the cup for her, and helps her place it between her lips. Her fingers reach up once more to wrap around his, to hold the cup there, and he tries to ignore how excited the skin beneath her touch becomes. 

“Better?” He questions, taking the cup from her when she’s finished, and the girl nods, leaning back again. 

“Maman?” She questions, her eyes looming over his shoulder, and he turns around, expecting to find the mother there, but is instead met with the sight of an empty chair. How had he not heard her leave? He could usually detect the smallest of sounds. Curse the blonde, he thought. She was softening him up. 

“Does your stomach still hurt?” He questions, noticing the sweat lining her forehead and the shivers that racked her frame. She pulls the blanket tighter around her, though it soon becomes too much heat. 

“Sore,” is all she can say, and with a careful glance toward the dorm, he leans forward to brush away the sweat with his shirt sleeve before placing a palm against her forehead. Though she was still warm, it certainly wasn’t as warm as before. Her fever still hadn’t broken, but that was progress. 

However, the moan that escaped her lips is almost sinful in sound, and his eyes widen with horror, lurching away. 

“Your hand is cold. Feels nice,” she whispers, rolling toward him. Gulping, he lays his hands against her cheeks, praying she doesn’t moan like that again. 

“Good Heavens, Meg, your mother is in the next room over. She’s already quite cross with me! We don’t need her thinking I’m violating you. It would rather be in both of our interests for you to be in your right mind again, and stop getting me into trouble,” he murmurs. 

“M’sorry,” she murmurs, leaning against one of his palms more heavily. They sit in silence, her eyes slipping closed, though she opens one, if nothing more than to stare at him. 

“Something the matter?” 

“Stop thinking so loud,” she complains, and the corner of his lip arches up. 

“I’ll do my best.”

He couldn’t comprehend why he was so scared for her. He had been poisoned, once, and though he had survived, it was certainly a brush with death. It frightened him, more than anything, how much he’d latched onto this girl, how his heart raced when they touched. 

He felt like romance’s fool, caught in something he didn’t understand, nor was certain he wanted to understand. For so long, it had only been him and Madame, but then Christine had come. But now . . . but now, he was here, with Meg, and everything felt different. 

He knew, undeniably, that if she didn’t make it, he wasn’t sure he could recover. All of his loss, all of his grief, all of those twenty-eight years, and yet these few months he’d known her would be the heaviest to bear. How cruel it would be, he thought, to take her away. Perhaps she would be the last good thing he’d ever be given. 

She began to bristle as his neck and back began to stiffen. Meg called for her mother, but when her eyes opened to him, she giggled, reaching out to grab his hand. 

“Hello!” She greets, and Erik shushes her, covering her mouth with his hand and pointing toward the door, which was opened, just a touch. 

“Helloooo!” She whispers now, chasing his hand with a kiss before he pulls it away, clearing his throat in discomfort. 

“Hello, my dear,” he replies, and the smile she gave him nearly melted his heart. 

“I love it when you call me that,” Meg grins, rolling onto her side, reaching up to grab his forearm. Her speech was slurred and honeyed, and his heart sped up when his fingers reached his. 

“Okay,” is all he can muster, and she giggles again, light and twinkling and quiet. Her laugh was beautiful, he realized. It was intoxicating when he was the reason she laughed. 

“And what if I called you ‘mon lutin’?” He chuckles, and she huffs mockingly, her eyes unfocused. 

“My ears aren’t pointy! I’m not an elf!”

“I’m not quite certain of that. I think they may be, just a little,” he jokes, brushing her hair aside to stare at her ear obscenely, and she giggles, batting his hands away, before shivering. 

“Will you lay with me? I’m cold. Maman always laid with me when I was cold,” she asks innocently, pulling his arm toward her, though he then removes himself completely away from her. 

“Are you mad? No, Meg, you don’t want that,” he says, turning from her, and he hears the blonde huff behind him. 

“You don’t know what I want,” she insists, crossing her arms, and when he does turn, a childish pout plays on her mouth. His lips quirked upwards at the sight. 

“I don’t believe the morphine knows what you want, either,” he chuckles lowly. 

Her lips open in a dramatic gasp, and his eyes inadvertently lower to her mouth. “Are you laughing at me?” He shakes his head, though he still grinned amusingly. 

“I’m not”

“Are too!”

“I am not!”

“Yes you are!”

“Shhhh!” He shushes, holding a finger to his lips. 

“If you don’t come into this bed with me, I’ll scream!” She threatens, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Go ahead. It doesn’t bother me any,” he shrugs, though he carefully eases the door shut, knowing it won’t do much to block the noise. He does see, however, that he and Meg are alone. The Madame must have gone out, he thought. 

“Darn,” she groans, flinging herself back and creaking the bed. She quiet for a moment, and he assumes she’s gone to sleep until he hears sniffling. 

“Meg?” He questions, lurking closer, and she’s face down in the pillows, shoulders trembling slightly. He sighs, delving deeper within him to find patience. 

“Go away,” she groans, burying her deeper into the bed, away from him. He looks away for a moment, fists clenching and then unclenching, before returning his gaze to her. 

“Is all this because I won’t lay with you?” He asks gently, keeping his voice steady. She was drugged and spent, he reminded himself. 

“You hate me,” she cries softly, rolling over to face him, wiping away tears. Her own reminds him of his own fresh tragedy, the contents of the letter still burned into his thoughts, and his chest feels heavy again. He’d forgotten for a few moments, when he was with her. 

He was startled, however, and taken aback. “What on earth are you talking about, Meg?”

“You won’t kiss me, you won’t talk to me, and now you won’t lay with me! I’m cold and Maman always held me when I was sick and rubbed my back but you won’t because you hate me and Maman isn’t here because she’s angry at you and it’s my fault!” She gasps, reaching up to cover her face with her hands. 

Well. This was certainly a development. 

His jaw felt so tight he feared it would snap. That certainly wasn’t right - she couldn’t want him to kiss her! The morphine must have done a number on her, he surmises. Yes, that was the only possible conclusion. 

“Do friends do all of those things?” He asks, almost honestly and cluelessly. 

He was friends with Nadir, yes, but he was beginning to notice that friendship with females was entirely different. Not that Meg’s friendship was any less precious to him. 

“We can. It’s rather different for us, I think,” she sniffles, wiping tears from her cheeks, her eyes still eerily unfocused. “Will you lay with me? Please? I miss Christine and Papa and Paris and I’m really cold, and I feel really sad and tired and I wish I could dance.”

He glanced toward the door, worried someone would come barging in, but at the slight tremble of his shoulders, he felt himself giving in. This wasn’t taking advantage, right? And he knew so little of comfort, of touch . . . 

“Alright, but you stay on your side, and I’ll stay on mine,” he states, climbing onto the bed and sitting himself upright, back leaning against the headboard. 

“Can we cuddle?” Her muffled soprano questions, and he gawks, gulping harshly. 

“Dear Lord, girl, no. I’m the Phantom of the Opera for Heaven’s sake. I do not cuddle -”

“Please? Just a little bit?” She pleads, speech now even more slurred now than it was before, and he sighs. He wanted Meg to touch him, to embrace him, but he was frightened of feeling that deep-rooted emotion too deeply. He couldn’t face rejection again . . . 

Surely it wouldn’t be a sin for one embrace? He was only comforting her, he reminds himself. She wasn’t in her right mind. 

“Fine! Fine, but only a little bit-”

But before he could finish, she was already nearly atop him, snuggling into his lap. His hands fly upwards, shaking, and he isn’t sure what to hold, what to do. This was too much, too much . . . 

“Will you rub my back? M’sore . . . “ she mumbles, her eyelids falling shut and exhales becoming slower. 

“Meg,” is all he can choke out, and he feels his face redden in embarrassment at the tears that prick his eyes. He wondered if she could hear his beating heart and the blood rushing through his veins. 

“Thanks,” she slurs before dozing off again, her shivers ceasing. 

“I remember being poisoned, and the delusion of it. It was when I began taking morphine, but unlike you, no one monitored my doses, or that I continued taking it for nearly a decade after,” he stammers quietly, not wanting to wake her. “Your thoughts, I remember, are still your own. Though you may not be thinking logically, nothing is accidental. And nothing with you, Meg, is random either.” 

He reaches down, hands shaking erratically, and gently moves gold aside, smoothing the strands back. It wasn’t as thick as it appeared, but was smooth and light. He’d touched her hair before, in soft touches, but he’d never ran his fingers through it. She hums in her sleep, and leans into his ministrations. He gasps and moves his hand away, resting it at his side. 

The blonde couldn’t possibly be attracted to him. Erik’s thoughts soon fled to Christine, though he is loathe to. He ponders both women, deeply, and discomfort fills him again. He still felt that ache, that longing for the brunette, desperately wanting to hold on, desperately wanting her back, but he couldn’t ignore the blonde in his lap either. 

Certainly, something was electric in his heart when they touched. He thought back to all those years before, their chance meetings and fleeting glances. He’d watched her grow, while he was growing himself. She certainly wasn’t the best technical dancer in the corps, but she was the most passionate, the most emotional, and demanded the stage, all shyness disappearing once she stepped out from behind the curtains. Without a doubt, Meg Giry had been born for the stage. 

Her debut had been much different than Christine’s. They were two very different women, he realized then, and wondered if despite their differences, he felt the same for both. He wasn’t sure, and he was frightened to let her go. Christine was undoubtedly a part of his past, and would stay there. But how it hurt him, to imagine Christine with Raoul, happy and loving and growing a family together. Pathetic, he cursed himself, but he tugged Meg closer, tighter, slumping over. 

Whatever she was, she was perhaps his most precious friend. 

“Why is it that I can accept your touches, but not others? Why is it when you embrace me in my weak moments, it doesn’t shake my core, but when I embrace you in yours, it’s . . . difficult? I’m barely a man, Meg Giry, and an even lesser friend. How do you accept me? How do you express vulnerability and sympathy and friendship to me?” 

Tears were streaming down his face now, and his mind suddenly filled with images of another brunette girl.

“And . . . and Ch-Chris . . . “ he nearly sobs. “I can’t even speak her name. What kind of man am I, if I care for you, Meg, and the other one too?” His hand returns to her scalp, gently brushing through the tangles once more. 

“I wish we had come to know each other sooner. I know, it’s a silly thing to wish, but you make me feel alive, Meg. So alive. You make me want to be alive. Perhaps we wouldn’t be half-way across the world, laying in some hard, incredibly uncomfortable bed, and you wouldn’t be facing death.” 

This time, a sob does come from him, and he clutches at the sleeve of her gown. “And what kind of man am I, that I can’t even admit this while you’re awake?” 

“Erik?” An aged voice says, and in comes Fleur, awkwardly standing in the doorway. “Antoinette wanted me to check on the both of you.” 

“Please, go away,” he says gruffly, facing downcast so his tears aren't visible. However, she seems to catch them, and his breath catches as the door closes behind her. 

“What’s upset you? Is it your wife’s condition?” Fleur asks gently, and Erik chuckles sardonically. 

“Don’t pretend you care for me, now. I know you loathe me. And I won’t stop you - I deserve it.”

“Tell me why you are upset, and I will judge for myself,” she insists, and as she comes closer, his grip on Meg becomes tighter and tighter. 

“She cares for you, boy, so deeply, that I sometimes wonder if you’ve been close friends for years. You certainly argue like ones, and she’s never spoken ill of you in my presence. And trust me, you’ve given her plenty of reasons to.” Fleur comes to sit beside the couple on the bed, and he quickly wipes away tears. Meg rolls about, now facing him, and his fingers clutch her upper arm. “I rather think you both hated each other at one point, didn’t you?”

“You know nothing,” he hisses. “Don’t presume to understand something I barely understand myself.”

“You’re right,” she immediately apologizes, lifting her arms in defeat. “I overstepped. All I simply want to know is why you are upset. Though I will not lie in my stance on your character, it’s obvious how much you care for Meg, and her mother.” 

Erik remains quiet, his eyes still fixed on Meg, almost in angry submission. Fleur sighs at the sight. 

“I think, though it’s not hers completely to give, she forgives you, Erik. I see it in your shared smiles, your embraces, her words. I still can’t believe she married you, however.” And at this, Erik chuckles, though he doesn’t think telling Fleur that the woman laying across his lap wasn’t his wife, at least under God. 

“You cannot find peace in this world, Erik, until you find it with yourself. You must forgive yourself before others can do the same. Though I think we both rather know that Meg has a large heart, enough to bear all the damage done to yours.”

“And have you? Found peace?” He asks quietly, his grip loosening on Meg. 

“No. Every day, I curse the man who took my daughter’s life. Every day, I pray he pays for his crimes. And though I won’t pretend to know your reasons, you have love in your life, Erik. The man who killed my daughter did not,” she admits, and Erik nearly shivers at her admission. 

It was quiet for a while, and she eventually leaves, leaving them both alone in the silent, dark expanse of the room. 

He didn’t like to think of Christine, though the pain of her memory began to dull with time. He remembered her kiss, both of them, and with a heaving sigh and a shaking sob, he made a promise. Meg owed him nothing, didn’t deserve to bear the weight of his sins, his regret. He finally understood, then, what Christine had tried telling him, but he wouldn’t listen. 

He’d tried so hard to find belonging, to find purpose, to find change and hope, in a girl whose heart didn’t belong to him. But those things aren’t to be found in others, he realized. He can only find those rose-colored things in himself. 

Christine’s kiss had shown him that he wasn’t a monster, wasn’t a phantom. Meg seemed to perceive him as important, as someone to be cherished. Perhaps he was worth something. Perhaps he was lovable. Horrid insults built in his mind, but he shoved them away with hope. 

“I made a promise to God, and now I’ll make one to you: I’ll be a better man, Meg Giry. If not for you, then for myself.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The next few days fled in a hurry. Meg remained bedridden, still ill from her poisoning, which led Erik to conclude she’d been poisoned slowly, over time, perhaps with arsenic. She slept for most of it, her body still utterly exhausted, though Erik insisted she be eased off of the morphine. Madame Giry obliged when she saw the haunted look adorning his features at the mention of the depressant. 

He began working with Hammerstein immediately, assuming the ghost-writing position. It paid a generous sum of money, which they kept hidden in the pillowcase beneath Meg’s head. Madame Giry attended to her daughter for most of the day, mostly rubbing her sore muscles and helping her change. 

When Erik returned home, he brought with him bread, cold fruits and water, and warm cylinders of soup. When he thought the Madame was asleep, he’d prop Meg up against the backboard, and would eat with her as she whispered about whatever they whispered of. 

Once, Madame Giry thought she’d heard ‘Cinderella’ and ‘Empress’ from Erik’s mouth. And when Meg would begin to shake again, he’d help her beneath the covers, and remain by her side until she fell asleep. He’d made a home for himself on the floor next to her bed, and would rest until the next morning, watching over the blonde, leaving before Madame Giry rose. 

Thus, a routine, Jack realized. The Phantom was vulnerable. And with that, an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright y'all. so i am very excited to announce that the spooky meg/erik fic will be happening! i'm still working out the logistics of it since classes exist and and my free time said au revoir but it will be happening!!!!!! i'm super excited for it! in the next chapter, i'll let you know the posting schedule for it :) and just as a little preview: it's called "the walls have ears" 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! AND DANGIT JACK LEAVE THEM ALONE


	19. chapter nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blondie makes a decision, and grumpy maybe isn't so grumpy anymore :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello you lovely people! it's pretty late right now but hey fic is to be read either under your desk during a lecture or squealing under your blankets ya know 
> 
> anyways! i hope you enjoy :). in the ending notes, i'll talk more about the meg/erik fic coming out this halloween!

Meg awakes feeling more alert than she had for nearly two weeks. With great struggle, she swings her legs from under the blankets and off of the bed, nearly tripping over the blankets, pillow and sleeping trousers scattered there. She only wore a silken robe - Erik’s silken robe - and minimal underthings, and the thought of him attending to her with her state of undress caused her to blush. 

After a shower, her mind still pleasantly numb, she returns to her mother, who had tears in her eyes as she was embraced. 

“My dear girl. My dear, dear girl,” she murmurs, holding her daughter tightly. “I love you so much, ma choupette.”

“I love you too, Maman,” Meg replies, a small smile on her face as she squeezed her mother back. Her hair was dark and stringy and wet, and rested snuggly against her neck and back, utterly freezing, but she didn’t have the heart to pull it back when her mother sat her down and began to run a comb through, working out the knots. 

After much conversation, mainly consisting of her mother holding back tears and constantly asking if she was feeling alright, Meg asked the question that had been weighing on her mind. “If you don’t mind me asking . . . where is Erik?” 

She regrets it almost immediately, seeing the knowing suspicion enter her mother’s gaze. “And why would you like to know?” 

Meg shrugs nonchalantly, popping a raspberry into her mouth. “Oh, no reason. He . . . he promised me the last croissant, since he ate them all last time, and I saw they were all missing. I rather wanted to give him a good glare before he was off, but looks like I just missed him.” 

“Meg, I think we need to have a conversation,” Madame Giry begins, but is interrupted by a loud voice talking frantically, and then a tall, broad shadow that Meg had grown to know next to a smaller shadow, still rather tall. 

“Fleck?” Meg questions, standing just as the door swings open, and the ginger flings herself at Meg, wrapping her arms around the shorter blonde. Meg hugs her tightly back, squealing as they embrace each other. 

“I was so worried about you, blondie! You didn’t come in for days, and then your husband sends a letter that you’ve fallen ill and will no longer be working at the factory . . . Dear Lord, Meg, I was terrified,” she rants, and Meg giggles, shaking her head. 

“Well, as you can see, I’m quite alright now. Well, I am starving, but other than that, quite well,” she replies, and the red-head hugs her tightly again before releasing her. Before that, however, she opens her eyes and glances at Erik, who was still standing at the door, and smiles widely at him. In response, he tips his hat, giving her a little bow. “Thank you,” she mouths, and in rare form today, apparently, he winks at her cheekily before closing the door behind him and making his way onto the roof. 

Now, Meg began to tear up, and she affectionately held Fleck’s hands within her own, gazing at her, tears welling in her eyes. “I missed you, so much, my darling friend. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you and your horrid French accent.” 

“Don’t you start crying! Or I will too!” She laughs, tears forming in her own eyes in return. “And don’t worry! Me and my ‘horrid French accent’ plan on sticking around for a while.”

“Is this your friend you’ve spoken over before?” Her mother asks, and Meg nods, chuckling at the tears running down her cheeks and wiping them away. 

“Yes! Maman, this is Fleck. Fleck, Maman,” she introduces, and they both smile at each other, shaking hands. The dancer notices her mother’s gaze sweeping over her features, as if judging them, and realizes that she may be suspicious of Fleck being the one to poison her. 

“Would it be alright if I kidnapped your daughter for the day? I’d love to spend some time with her. I missed her terribly,” Fleck asks, and her mother’s gaze flicks to Meg’s, and she shakes her head rapidly, excitedly. 

“Alright, Meg. Be home by dinner, please. I want you to stay safe, okay?” Her mother whispers to her, and Meg grins, nodding. 

“I promise I will. I’ll see you later, Maman. And please make sure Erik eats something today before he does whatever he does. He’s working now, isn’t he? Make sure he brings a lunch,” she replies, hugging her mother before bouncing off to Fleck, weaving their arms together. 

And though Madame Giry was glad to see the two girls together, and even gladder that Meg had found a friend, the sudden idea rose in her head that, once Meg married, she’d be alone. She’d worried, for a while, that Meg would be unable to find a husband, as she was a dancer with too many opinions, and Madame Giry would be loath to dampen any of them. 

And then, that troubling thought of Erik and Meg. She’d felt awful afterwards, accusing Erik of toying with Meg’s affections to replace what he had with Christine, and he’d adamantly refused that, saying nothing was happening between them that she needed to worry about, and he wouldn’t ever manipulate her feelings like that for his own advantage. She’d felt horrid afterwards, seeing how deeply her words had cut him, but she’d felt her concerns were fair, especially since she suspected their relationship was something beyond friends, if not lovers. She’d apologized after, but still wasn’t convinced. 

She sighed, grasping Meg’s rosary for comfort, which Madame Giry had removed while she’d been sick so she wouldn’t lay uncomfortably on top of it. 

“Antoinette?” Fleur asks, almost hesitantly and hurriedly, and her gaze flicks up, landing on the other woman. 

“Yes? Is something the matter?”

“That will be the understatement of the century, I assure you,” she says, unrolling a newspaper and throwing the wad on the table. 

“What’s this?” She questions, and then her eyes widen at the title. A hand comes to cover her mouth as her eyes skim the article, tears welling in her eyes. 

“It has to do with you, Antoinette.” 

“You are not to tell Meg or Erik,” Antoinette pleads, crumpling it back up. “Please, rid this place of it. I don’t want them finding out about this. This . . . this certainly changes things.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“The violet one, or the navy one?” Meg questions, holding both of the dresses up to her, switching between them as Fleck gazed at her, judging between the two. 

“The violet one, I’d say. It would look lovely with your cape, though coats are rather in fashion,” Fleck suggests, but Meg waves her off, jiggling her small bag of change, coins clinking together with soft clicks. 

“You forget that I can barely afford bread,” she chuckles, shoving the small, pink thing back into her dress pocket, and she realizes that her rosary was missing. She realizes her mother must have removed it, which eased the panic of possibly losing it, but she still felt quite naked without it. 

“I thought the husband had gotten a well-paying job?” She’d asked, crossing her arms. 

“Only for a little bit, I suspect. I don’t really remember when he started - I was probably either higher than a kite or asleep - but at this time, it certainly wouldn’t amount to much,” Meg explains. 

“And if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the mask for?” She says, almost carefully, and the blonde inhales, placing both of the dresses down on a silken chair. 

“He fought in the Crimean War, and sustained terrible facial injuries because of it,” she lies. “He is rather sensitive about the topic, so I beg you not to mention it to him, or even stare at the mask for more than a few seconds.”

“Oh,” Fleck breathes, her eyes becoming downcast and serious before stepping forwards and grabbing the girl’s hands. “You must be so proud, to be married to someone who fought for good. How glad you must be, too, that he came home in one piece - well, two, I suppose - and not in a million.”

“So you understand why it bothers me none. I ask that you show him the same kindness and same compassion as you would anyone else,” Meg says, and she hates herself, for lying through her teeth, but at least this part was truthful. And though much time had passed since she’d seen his face, she rather hoped simply knowing who he was and his character would be enough to overcome whatever horror lay behind the mask, at a more careful glance. If he ever removed it again.

“Of course I do, Meg. Now, don’t you dare get that money bag out again - today is my day, so my treat. I’ll purchase the dress for you. And your boots look something horrid, so I suppose we’ll get you something nicer,” Fleck reveals, and Meg’s eyes widen, shaking her head. 

“Oh, no, Fleck, that’s completely all right. I was planning on coming back here when I have more saved up and purchasing a dress then,” she explains, but she’s cut off by the red-head. 

“Nope! Sorry, I’m already convinced. I’m buying you the dress, the boots, and lunch,” she stubbornly states, refusing to hear any of Meg’s arguments. 

“If you are truly comfortable with purchasing these things for me, then I beg you to let me take you out one day when I’ve more saved,” Meg bargains, and Fleck agrees, though as she turns, purses her lips in a disbelieving way. “Thank you very much, Fleck.”

“Don’t thank me just yet! We’ve still to find lunch. I shall treat you to the very best of American cuisine! I suspect you’ve only had whatever the Mister brings home?” 

“My mother would bring home much of the food, here. She’s more a man of the house than he is,” she giggles, and Fleck grins, placing their items on the counter to be wrapped and bagged. 

“So I suspect you haven’t even had Pigs in a Blanket? Or a Blushing Bunny? Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t had any Eggs in Prison! Despite the name, they are simply delectable!” Fleck exclaims, struggling with translating the names quickly, but Meg understood them plenty fine. 

“I haven’t a clue what any of those things are! Though they all frighten me, a bit,” Meg reveals, grinning, and the red-head laughs, handing coins over to the cashier. 

“Oh, nothing too terrible, I promise! Come, let’s go!” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was only after they’d eaten everything Fleck had said they would - including a delicious drink called Dr. Pepper, syrupy sweet and a bit bitter at the end - that a strange man approached them, perhaps in his mid-forties, pristine white teeth poking out from behind is lopsided smile. 

“Meg, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Fleck introduces, pulling out the chair next to her for him to sit, directly across from the blonde. She immediately began to feel uncomfortable, and a little upset that her friend had invited someone and not told her, but she trusted the woman. “He speaks French, Meg, so you should be alright.” 

How strange that so many people here speak French, Meg wonders.

“Of course,” the dancer greets, holding a hand out. “I’m Marguerite Y.” 

“Just Y?” He asks, taking her hand and kissing her knuckle, a chilled shiver running down her spine at the tone of his voice. 

“Yes,” she replies. “You’ll have to ask my husband about that one - I, unfortunately, haven’t any of its origins, though he is French as well.” She carefully emphasizes ‘husband’, wiggling her ring fingers slightly to draw attention to it. Something felt off, and she nearly looked at Fleck accusingly. 

“A sort of a mystery, then! I’m sure you are as well, the lady of the hour,” he grins, and the full effect of using ‘Mr. Y’ as a pseudonym hit her, and she nearly laughed out loud as she realized it was supposed to reflect ‘mystery’. 

“Yes, I suppose he is,” is all she replies with, withdrawing her hand and placing it back in her lap. She felt nervous and wanted to reserve herself, wanting to dart at the strange look in his eyes, especially when they crawled down to her chest. 

“Mr. Thompson, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you here? Why did Fleck invite you?” She asks, her voice wavering, and she gulps back her anxiety. Though they were still inside, his hungry eyes found her bosom, so she drew her cape back over his shoulders. Who was this man?

“You friend here tells me you’re a dancer, is that true?” He asks, and Meg fiddles the ring nervously, her gaze dropping to the table. 

“I’m afraid I’ve just recovered from an . . . illness, and I haven’t been practicing my craft for a few months now.” Her voice was tight and pained, and Fleck immediately recognized it as longing, for something she’d lost, and her chest pinched. 

“Well, I’m certainly sorry to hear that. However, I’d like to invite you to my . . . dance studio, per se,” he suggests, and Meg’s eyebrows arch, and Fleck turns to him, as if surprised. 

“Now, Frederick -”

“No, no, Miss, let me have a conversation with the nice young lady,” he says, staring at Meg the entire time he spoke and holding a hand up to silence the red-head. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not interested -”

“I rather think you will be after I tell you this, my dear,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows, and Meg leans back, startled. 

“How much do you need for your husband’s amusement park?” He asks, and she shoots a glare at Fleck, who merely shrugs. 

“I haven’t a clue, sir. I only know he wishes to bridge the gap between New Jersey and New York City, and wants it to be near the water. He describes it to me as a circus,” she explains carefully, wondering how much to give away. 

“Why, that’s simply wonderful! A very fine investment indeed. It would be a shame if you didn’t sign this contract,” he says, almost nonchalantly, pulling a paper from his coat pocket. Fleck’s hand darts forward, catching his arm with a glare, but with a clear warning in his eyes, she backs off with a cower.

“Sir, this is in English,” she points out almost ashamedly. “I don’t know much of the language.”

“That’s quite alright! I can explain to you what’s written,” he begins. Meg leans back, skeptical, but misses the intentionality behind the language choice, and the smirk drawn across his face at her words. 

“I suppose,” she murmurs, twisting the ring around her finger. She hated feeling dependent on him, but she desperately wanted Erik’s advice, though she was rather certain he would tell her to walk away from the proposal, and perhaps even add a fist to the nose for her troubles. Despite that, the investment had a rather nice ring to it. 

“If you agree to become one of my dancers for six months, I will give you half of the funding needed,” he says, and Meg nervously ticks her fingers together. 

“What kind of dancing is it?” She questions, weaving a strand of pale gold around her finger. Though it was an innocent action, his eyes followed with excitement. 

“It’s . . . exotic. It’s wild, and it’s free,” he explains, leaning forward. “And I believe you are just the type.”

“I don’t know . . . “ she replies. “I’m only trained in ballet, and I would need to talk to my husband and mother if I am indeed making any long-term commitments-”

“You don’t need his approval, do you? From what Felicity has told me, you are fairly independent, Meg,” he says convincingly, and even Meg began wanting to tell him yes. 

In all honesty, though she was independent, perhaps far too much according to society’s standards, her mind reeled back to when Erik had taken care of her. She remembered his fingers wrapped around her ankle and calf, and hands skimming over her hair and cheeks and holding her against him, and she fought back a blush. She’d never admit it aloud, but all those small acts of caring for her were some of her most precious memories, despite someone poisoning her purposefully. 

“All due respect, Mr. Thompson, but this is a decision that certainly affects us three, especially my husband -”

“It’s now or never, Mrs. Y. Take the money or leave it,” he states, dropping a pencil down upon the English gibberish. 

“I apologize, Sir, but no-”

“Now, Mrs. Y, it’s only dancing. You’ll also be receiving tips - what could truly be so bad about that? And you needn’t tell your husband anything. In fact, many of my dancers are married and haven’t told their husbands a single thing,” he explains, and Meg cocks an eyebrow. 

“Why haven’t they told their husbands? What’s so wrong with dancing?” She asks suspiciously. 

“You know how men are. If women don’t fit into the mold they provide, the women are left behind. I’m sure you wouldn’t want your husband to do such a thing.”

“He’s not like that!” She argues, anger growing in her, both at the assumption that Erik would be like any other man - he certainly wasn’t. He was both worse and better - and the reminder of women’s role in society. Calmer now, she says, “Is it truly just dancing, Mr. Thompson?” 

“Of course, Mrs. Y. Now, will you sign? I have a pamphlet to offer you, as well,” he explains, pushing it in front of her as she hesitantly picks up the pencil. With a breath, and imagaining Erik’s dream, how happy he would be once he achieved his Phantasma, she signed along the dotted line. What convinced her, however, was imagining herself singing in one of the costumes, entrancing all of the city. 

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Y,” he concludes, and bends down to kiss Meg’s hand. When he turns to bid farewell to Fleck, she wipes her hand off on her dress. And when he finally left, the blonde began thinking she’d made a mistake. However, the red-head says nothing, and they begin heading home. 

“I’ll see you later, blondie,” she grins, hugging Meg tightly before kissing her cheek. 

“I’ll see you soon as well, Fleck,” Meg grins, shoving her hands into her pockets and feeling the pamphlet crumple there. And as she begins to wander away, Erik arrives from work, holding warm, steaming food in a basket. She gives a wary glance at his mask before hurrying away, the man paying little attention to her. 

“I trust it was an enjoyable day?” He questions, and she nods, inhaling the savory scent. “Granted, I can simply tell that from all of your bags.”

“It was! Thank you, Erik, for bringing her over. That was very sweet of you,” she says warmly to him, and the corner of his lip perks up. 

“Lord knows you’ve been through enough. Now, we shall only hope we have enough room to fit all of your new items in the tenement.”

They enter in together, her mother and the family of three at the dinner table, Robin already napping in George’s arms, the old man cooing at the child. Erik closes the door behind them, and places the food on the table, careful to avoid eye contact with everyone. Somehow, he felt tension with nearly every person in the room. Perhaps even Robin. 

“How was your day, ma choupette?” Her mother questions, and Meg grins, dropping her bags to embrace her mother from behind. 

“Brilliant, Maman. I hope you fared well today, as well,” she replies, pulling away to sit between her and a newly grumpy Erik, whom she forced onto the bench beside her. 

Dinner mainly consisted of conversation between her mother and the two others, but Erik and Meg remained quiet, sitting close together. He seemed to be burning with questions, and she wanted to ask it out of him, but rather hoped he would take the initiative on his own. 

“Are you alright?” She murmurs, bumping his covered foot with her bare one, and he flinches at the contact, to which she frowns. 

“Fine,” he grumbles simply, and considers sidling up next to him to comfort the man, but instead playfully bumps his ankle. 

“Did you miss me? Is that what’s wrong?” She jokes, but he says nothing, and a secret warmth spreads in her. Did he truly miss her? Is that what had happened? If he had wanted to spend the morning with her sober self, why did he bring Fleck about? 

“Nope,” he says, and she huffs, turning straight forwards again. 

“Fine. Live with your inner turmoil.”

“I have for nearly my entire life, thank you very much,” he says nonchalantly, and though it was meant to be more humorous than serious, she knew the comment to be true, and her heart sunk from it. 

“Well not anymore, because you have me and Maman,” she replies, and she shoves an orange slice into her mouth, not gauging his reaction. 

They were silent after that, and when they all retired for bed, she saw him pull his chair as far away from the couch as possible, though instead of slumping on it, he instead collapsed onto the floor, removing his cloak from the back of it. She’d forgotten her blanket across the room, and she stands warily to grab her, a wave of exhaustion flowing over her. When she returns, however, she stops at Erik’s figure on the floor. 

Without much thought, she reaches for her cloak, and lays down beside him, his back facing her. He must have known she was there, because he stiffened something horrible. 

“Meg, nothing now. Please.” His voice was hoarse, but she made sure to keep space between them. 

“Can I lay here? With you?” She whispers, quietly enough so her mother couldn’t hear, on the chance she hadn’t fallen asleep yet. He relents, his shoulder relaxing, and she pulls the blanket over herself. He mumbled something like “I haven’t a clue why you would”, but Meg couldn’t be sure.

“Your neck looks terribly uncomfortable. You should put this underneath it, like a pillow,” she suggests, tossing it over his face, and he reaches up to pull it off. 

“Isn’t this your cape?”

“Yes, but it’s alright. I want you to be comfortable,” she explains, pulling her own pillow under her neck. She was expecting him to refuse it, but he instead pulls it under his head. Her perfume stuck stubbornly to the cape, and he inhaled the rose and vanilla, a strange sort of calm filling him from the scent. 

“Is everything alright, Erik?” She whispers, reaching out to touch his arm, but pulls back before she makes contact. 

He wanted to ask her of what was happening within him, of why she’d mentioned a kiss, but the memory of a lifetime of rejection rises in him, and he remains quiet. 

“I remember the letter, Erik, though I remember nothing but you being upset,” she whispers, and he closes his eyes, fisting his hands together. 

“Don’t ask of its contents, Meg,” he says almost harshly, almost pleading, and he hears her shift closer, and fingers touch his shoulder. 

“It’s okay. I won’t. You don’t have to tell me anything, but I’m here for you.” He heard her shuffling behind him, and then the clicking of beads falling together. “You can borrow this, tonight. It’s my grandmother’s rosary, and holding it close always brings me comfort.”

He turns toward her, and even in the near complete darkness, he sees her eyes light up. “Hello,” she murmurs, smiling sadly. 

She hands the rosary to him, and though the gesture was almost uncomfortably overwhelming, it was nothing compared to her close presence. It was difficult to decide whether he wanted to push her away, or pull her closer. Quietly, hoping it was too dark for her to see, he bunches it in his hand, and holds it against his chest, near his heart. He almost felt safer that way, holding an object closer to him instead of her. 

“Thank you for taking care of me, Erik,” she murmurs, laying her hand between their bodies. “You didn’t have to, but you did, and that means more to me than I can articulate.” She breathes shakily, and his eyes snap up to hers. “And in all honesty, I’ve never been frightened more.”

Guilt welled in him, and he clutched the rosary tighter. “I’m truly sorry, Meg. It’s my fault -”

“No, it’s not. Don’t blame yourself, Erik,” she replies, and he goes quiet. 

“You don’t need to be frightened, Meg. I know you won’t be thrilled by the idea, but it would be wise for you to avoid being alone.” 

“Though you’re right, you should surely expect me to complain,” she jokes, though serious, and his honeyed, low chuckle deliciously tickles her ears. 

“I would be worried if you didn’t, my dear.” They both go quiet, but he nearly flinches when she reaches forward to grab his hand. 

“Is this okay?” She questions. “I feel safer this way, but only if you’re comfortable.”

“Y-yes,” he replies, and her fingers wrap around his firmly. 

“Good night, Erik.” 

And after he was sure she’d fallen asleep, he brushed a strand of hair away that had fallen across her face. He remembered as a child, wishing his mother would touch him lovingly, as any parent would to their son. 

Only Madame Giry had brushed his hair from his eyes, cut it when it became too long, washed it when he could barely breathe from nightmares and sobs, and embraced him in a motherly way. Still, she was a strict and stern woman, and the touches came rarely. With Meg, he felt as if she would welcome his touch anytime. He still couldn’t understand why she could stand his fingers against hers, but he knew such a question would sadden her immensely. 

"Bonne nuit, mon lutin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man this mr thompson guy is giving me bad vibes idk what do y'all think 
> 
> and for "the walls have ears", the current plan is to do a fun little countdown for it! it would be thirteen chapters, one chapter posted a day, the final one updated on halloween. THAT'S the current plan, but life is hectic right now, so I will do my best. i'm very excited for the story though, and am excited to begin publishing! so mark your calendars for october 19th! 
> 
> if you enjoyed, don't hesitate to comment! i love reading all of your reactions! :) see y'all in the next chapter!


	20. chapter twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> blondie and grumpy REALLY be goin through it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my lovely readers! here is the next update. i hope you all enjoy!

She woke to a hand shaking her shoulders, and she tenses, eyes flying open as if she were assessing any danger. Meg was normally a heavy sleeper, but ever since the ship, even the littlest noises would wake her, and fear would pound her heart. 

“It’s just me, Meg. Go lay next to your mother so she doesn’t know we slept side-by-side last night,” he whispers, looming above her, and she eases back against the floor, her eyes closing once again. 

“M’sleepy,” she murmurs, her voice low and tired, and he sighs, still grasping her arms. 

“It’s only a few feet. Would you rather me drag you?” He threatens, cocking an eyebrow, and she squints at the window, seeing the sky lighten a few shades. How early did Hammerstein require him to be there? 

“Preferably,” she grumbles, raising her hands to cover her face. “You’re one of those people who must wake at the crack of dawn, aren’t you? This isn’t just a currently-being-stalked and working-a-job situation, is it?”

“And I suspect you could sleep the whole day away if no one stopped you,” he chuckles, and she grins at the sound. He then gently clears his throat, his eyes darting, as if embarrassed, and he pulls his hands away from her, though Erik remains kneeling above the blonde. “Your mother is . . . suspicious, shall we put it. I really do think it would be wise to move back, Meg.”

“Only since you asked nicely,” she replies, sighing as she comes to a sitting position, grabbing her pillow and blanket. She noticed the rosary was returned, and carefully placed in her pocket. And innocently, she asks, “Suspicious of what?”

“I shall return for lunch to bring whatever is being served. Do not cause too much trouble while I’m gone,” he says hurriedly, and though even half-asleep she observed he avoided answering, she shrugged it off. 

“Don’t forget chocolate,” she murmurs before laying back down and curling into the blankets. He promises he’ll bring them, and with one last glance, he leaves the room. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Marguerite, have you noticed anything . . . different in Erik’s behavior? Perhaps something that you haven’t seen in the past few months?” Her mother questions as they sip tea on the porch, wrapped in blankets and staring out into the city. 

Confused, she scrunches her eyebrows and turns toward the Madame. “What do you mean, Maman? Overall, his behavior is very strange,” she humorously quips, though the older woman doesn’t even smile back, which sends a spike of worry down the blonde’s spine. 

“I woke to him opening and closing the door this morning. He did so nearly fourteen times before finally leaving,” she admits, and Meg cocks her head, setting the cup aside. 

“I suppose that is strange . . . I can’t think of anything, though. But why does it matter? He seems to have a lot of those quirks anyway,” the blonde shrugs. “He’s rather a perfectionist, Maman, but I suppose you know him better.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” she blurts out, though at the blush of embarrassment in Meg’s cheeks, reels herself back in. “Have you noticed him . . . checking anything? Like this morning? Perhaps he checks to see if the door is locked an unreasonable amount of times?”

Meg shakes her head again after thinking for a moment longer. “I can’t think of anything, Maman. But I’ll pay closer attention.” She already paid quite close attention to him, especially his hands, and she shrinks into her blanket, fighting down the blush warming her cheeks and chest. “Is he alright?”

The silence from her mother was much too long for the blonde’s anxiety, and she hurriedly looks at her mother worriedly. “Maman? Is Erik alright?”

“I’m not sure, my dear. The other evening, he received . . . well, terrible news. I’m worried that he’s quietly spiraling. Though he’s very dramatic and outspoken with his anger and such, there is much, much more happening within him, Meg, that’s very different from how you and me experience those emotions,” she explains, and though she was still confused, realization was slowly dawning on her. 

“Like Christine,” she replies, and the Madame nods. 

“Like Christine,” she affirms. “Yet I think you may understand how the two may differ from each other.”

The blonde nods, wrapping her arms uncomfortably around her abdomen, her thoughts drifting to her two perhaps closest friends. Her thoughts lingered on Erik, however, and she felt like a fool for not recognizing anything bizarre with him, as she was certainly in his presence more often than her mother was. To be fair, however, he was rather sporadic in moods, and though it had been a close few months, it still hadn’t nearly been as long compared to Maman’s years of observation. 

“I have a letter for you as well, Meg. It’s from Christine-” and before Meg could even finish, she quickly jumped from her seat, eyes widening. 

“May I see it?” She blurts, and her mother removes the envelope from her pocket, slightly rumpled. The blonde tears it open, fingers scrambling for purchase against the paper - her paper, her words - and consumed the words written for her. 

My dearest Meg, 

How much time it has been! It’s only been a few months, yet I feel as if we’ve been apart for years. Please forgive me that I haven’t written sooner - much has happened during this time, and I fear it has all gotten rather away from me. I went to see you, however, nearly a month after the incident, and I couldn’t seem to find you or your mother. I asked about, and they told me you had left in a rush for America - are you quite alright, my friend? I’ve never quite known your mother to be as spontaneous as that. 

But, enough of my questions! How are you faring? Have you found any love? Any friends? How is America? I’ve never been, but I once had a friend who had traveled nearly the entire country, and told me many stories of it! Though I do not remember him kindly, I hope I am able to tell you of all of his travels someday! I truly hope you are able to have those wonderful experiences, and allow me to live through them! And how is your mother? Is she faring too as well? I worry much for that woman. She’s more uptight than a pinched violin string! 

I have much more to ask you of, so I hope you will write me back! However, I wanted to inform you that Raoul and I were married a few weeks after the incident! I wanted to invite you in person, but I couldn’t seem to find you anywhere. I was able to locate Madame Giry after she sent a letter my way, though I find it rather strange that it came from an opera house. Have you found work? 

I hope to hear from you soon, Meg Giry! And to see you in the flesh even sooner!

Your loving friend, Christine

“Oh, Christine . . . Christine . . .” Meg murmurs, holding the letter tightly against her chest, fighting off the onslaught of tears that threatened to fall. “How I miss you, Christine.” 

“Perhaps someday, you both shall cross paths again,” her mother assures, placing a hand on her arm. “And I apologize for worrying you about Erik. I worry for him, perhaps more than I should. But I’m sure he would be quite annoyed if he had two mother hens worrying over him,” she grins, and Meg giggles, sipping from her tea. “But you promise to tell me if you notice anything, my dear?”

“I promise, Maman.” She replies. Meg desperately wanted to ask Erik if he was alright, and that he could always lean on her if he was in some sort of pain, but knew he wouldn’t. Her heart wrenched in her chest at the realization that if he was struggling with dark thoughts, he would battle them himself, alone. 

“Meg, I also wanted to speak to you about Erik. I know you two have become closer, but -“

“How dare you!” A silken, deep voice shouts from the bottom of the stairs, and the blonde jumps up, leaning over to find the familiar sight of the masked man, though his cheeks were blooming red and his face was contorted in anger, so harshly that Meg could tell from her high place above him. 

“Erik, what do you -“ she begins, but he cuts her off, marching up the stairs, holding a letter with a newspaper clipping attached to it. The blonde moves to the side as he cuts through, marching straight up to her mother.

“What is the meaning of this?” He cries out, glaring down at her, and the dancer darts forward, placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back.

“Don’t talk to my mother like that, Erik!” She chastises, and though he follows her hand, the anger doesn’t leave his expression. She gives him a questioning look, but nearly backs away as he sneers, his lips curling back menacingly. 

“What’s wrong?” She murmurs, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he thrusts the papers toward her. As her fingers wrap around them, she glances up to find the startling appearance of tears in her mother’s eyes. 

“Meg, forgive me,” she whispers, and now quickly, she unfurls the paper from Erik’s shaking hands, and finds a letter and a newspaper clipping attached to each other. On it, read Parisian merchant returns from sea, and without a doubt, she knew it to be her father. And as she skimmed the article, her eyes widened in fear and her fingers began to tremble. 

“He’s sick, Meg. They aren’t sure how much longer he’s going to last,” she explains, and tears prick the blonde’s eyes. “I don’t want him to go alone, Meg. And perhaps he will make it - but I can’t leave him there alone.”

“Let me go with you,” she begs, lowering the paper down. “I want to see Papa too, Maman. Especially if he’s . . . “ tears begin to stream down her cheeks, and Erik moves ever closer until he was by her side, and she was comforted by his presence. 

“Meg, my little Meg,” she murmurs, and she leans forward to embrace the girl, but the blonde backs away, and the masked man grabs the papers from her as she begins to rip them, his gaze still strong and hard. 

“You aren’t letting me go, are you!” She cries out, and her back hits the ledge. Quieter, now, “Papa . . . “ she murmurs, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. A gust of wind lifted the hair from the back of her neck, and Erik thought it looked rather like a halo, like a fallen angel.

She understood some of the reasoning behind this act. It wasn’t effective for all three of them to travel back to Paris and then return, and certainly not Erik. It also was also a rash idea for only herself and her mother to go, because of the target on their backs. Or specifically, it seems, Meg’s. Despite that fact, it still made her uneasy to imagine her mother going alone, and it was absolutely crushing to her to imagine her father dying and being unable to say goodbye. 

And with a gasp, the full effect of her father dying finally crashed onto her shoulders. 

She pulls away from the group, suddenly unable to breathe, and quickly hurries the stairs, nearly tripping over her dress in her sprint. Erik came up behind her, ready to follow her up, but the mother came forward and touched his arm. 

“Let her go, Erik,” she murmurs, wiping the tears from her eyes. “She has every right to be upset.” 

“You can’t leave her, Antoinette!” He shouts, bunching his hands together and tossing the papers on Meg’s chair. “You forget that I watched her grow, too. She hasn’t been without you for barely over a day!”

“Do not tell me how to parent my own child, boy! I came back for you, when you ran to Italy, so don’t you dare persecute me for not caring for you both!” She exclaims back, and he sniffs angrily, fists buried in his pockets. 

“I’m not talking about me, Madame! I’m talking about Meg!” He exclaims, and she softens, features slacking. 

“I believe you are, my boy,” she murmurs, and he turns away as her hand touches his shoulder, flinching. “I’m so sorry, Erik. But you must understand - my husband is half way across the world, and he’s ill.” Her voice cracks on the last world.

His eyes fill with tears, and suddenly he was a scared little boy, small and hurt and frightened. His shoulders caved forward, and her fingers circled his back, like she had done with Meg. 

“You feel as if I am abandoning you,” she whispers, understanding, and he turns on her, eyes flaring and cheeks wet. 

“You are abandoning me!” His voice was tight as he emphasized the ‘are’, and the woman frowns. Around them, thunder began to rumble in the distance, and the clouds above them darkened until it hung above them. 

“Come inside, my boy,” she beckons, blinking her own tears away and sunken heart. But he shakes his head, removing himself from her grip. 

“I’m getting Meg,” he states, and that familiar panic runs through her, seizing her heat tightly. 

“Erik, I haven’t any idea the nature of your relationship or . . . Feelings . . . For her,” she begins, and he whips around, frustration in his gaze, but perhaps also a hint of panic. 

“I have none!” He grunts out. 

“I forbid you from courting her, Erik,” she instructs, the strictness of her teaching coming through her voice. “Though I really do believe you to be a good man, I expect you to understand why my daughter is off limits.” 

“Whatever you say, Madame,” he grits out, though it was difficult to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, as if his heart were being split in two. 

It was a lie, he knew, to think Meg didn’t already possess both halves. 

He sprints up the stairs to find the blonde perched where he normally sat, shivering in the fresh cold and ignoring the droplets of rain as they began to fall. 

“Meg,” he announces himself, and shucks off his overcoat. Bending down behind her, he places it around her shoulders, and she settles into its warmth. 

“I’m not going back down,” she says firmly, and he plants his palms on her shoulders gently, and forces his own feelings down. The blonde had done that with him, when he had been upset, so he would do the same for her. 

“You must, Meg. It is going to rain,” he explains, and she shrugs beneath him. Her right hand reaches across her chest to lay atop his left one, and her fingers tremble with an unspoken grief. 

“Okay,” she whispers, giving in, and the both stand together. She grabs for his hand, and he lets her, and her grip is unnaturally tight as rain begins to pour down upon them. He pretends to ignore the tears running down her face, a more solemn shade as compared to the trickles of rain. They were in no hurry, though the sheer cold began to seep into Meg’s skin and lungs. And as they arrived at the door, he pulled away from her, twisting the handle. 

“Don’t go back to Hammerstein today,” she says, reaching out to grab the inside of his elbow, and he stops, looking at her in a forlorn sense, and some sort of dread fills her, his sadness tangible and deeper than she expected. 

“I shall stay, then.” 

They both walk in together to find Fleur aiding the Madame in packing her bag, and regret and shame was plain on the mother’s face. The blonde’s arms wrap around herself as the Madame quickly stands, and inhales abruptly. 

“Ma choupette,” she says, eyes sad and low, and she opens her arms toward the blonde. Without another word, she drops Erik’s soaked coat and runs toward her mother, burying herself into the familiar, warm embrace. 

“Promise me,” the blonde begs. “Promise me, that you’ll do everything you can to keep Papa alive.” 

“I swear with my life, little one,” she vows, and they hold each other tightly before the blonde pulls away, stifling down her anger and frustration. 

“This is yours,” she murmurs, sliding the ring off of her fingers and giving it to her mother. “Since Papa is back, you should wear it.” 

Erik stays deathly quiet and still as Meg helps her mother finish packing, and when it was time for her departure, tears began to glisten in the blonde’s eyes once more. 

“I love you. So much, my dear,” she murmurs to Meg, holding her tightly, allowing her daughter to be the one to pull away first, when she was ready. 

She only did after a handful of minutes. She’d wanted to accompany her mother to the ship, but she’d refused it. 

“Goodbye, Maman,” she says, and with a final goodbye and a gentle hand to the vexed man, she left. 

And Meg’s heart broke. 

She didn’t cry as she thought she would, though she certainly felt like it. It felt as if her father already was gone, and she desperately wanted the presence of her mother back. 

“Don’t be angry with mother,” she says, voice weary and tired. “This is the right thing.” 

“It certainly doesn’t feel like it,” he grunts, and she draws closer to him, standing in front of the masked man. 

“I know,” she whispers, agreeing silently. “But I won’t leave you. We’re friends. And Maman didn’t leave you, Erik. Not really.” 

She saw a flash of tears in his vision before slamming them closed, and she slowly moved behind him, molding herself to his back. Meg presses her face between his shoulder blades, and wraps her arms around his front. 

“Friends,” he repeats, as if the word still felt foreign to him. He melted into her arms, though she was significantly shorter, and his own limbs went limp by his side, outside of her embrace. 

It was easier for him to accept comfort like this, Meg had realized long ago. He didn’t like looking at the source of whoever he received it from, unless it was Madame Giry, and wasn’t very comfortable with giving it. 

She held him tighter at the thought of her father, fingers bunching into the material of his clothing, so close to him now that she could barely breathe. The blonde wished his arms were around her - someone’s, anyone’s - but it was enough, to simply know she was easing his own pain. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

They had stood like that for quite some time, Meg’s embrace a comfort to them both. She eventually pulled away, shivering from her wet clothes now dry, but still very much cold. She hands the over-jacket back to him, and he gratefully takes it, snaking his arms through the sleeves as she wipes her cheeks with a damp towel, sticky with tears. 

It was a solemn silence between them, one filled with loneliness, and they never strayed a few feet from each other. Meg, craving human interaction and closeness, and Erik, craving simply the presence of her. 

They eventually went in search of food - mainly for Meg - and when they came up dry, he offered his own lunch from that day, which they split on the floor, in the same place where they’d slept side-by-side before. 

“What are you thinking about?” He questions quietly, the first to break the silence, and the girl seemed startled before returning to buttering her bread once more. 

“How crazy having a nose is,” she says, touching a fingertip to her own. 

“Of course you are,” he grins, and a swell of joy erupts in her chest at the sight. It was an elated feeling, she got, when she was the source behind his happiness. “It’s to help you sing better, my dear.” 

“What do you mean?” She asks, scooting forward to be closer to him. “Why does it improve singing?”

“When your vocal folds move together to create noise,” he begins, placing a finger where her voice box resided. With a breath, his fingernail barely scratched her neck, and she fought to keep her eyes neutral. How strange, his touch came. 

“It travels up,” he explains, motioning it with drawing his fingernail up her throat, brushing her jaw and cheek, “and those sound particles vibrate in your face and nose. That’s why it’s almost easier to envision singing from the center of your forehead.”

“Is that why there’s a buzzing behind my face whenever I sing?” She questions, and he nods. 

“That’s exactly right, my dear,” he praises, and she grins, appreciating his affirmation. “Though you and your fairy nose have much theory and technique to learn.”

“I am not an elf!” She laughs, and she feels her mood instantly lift with the distraction. 

“Then perhaps you are a goblin, living deep beneath the ground, always cold and always lonely,” he says, though he sighs after, dropping his bread to the plate. “Maybe I better fit the goblin, mon lutin.”

“Well, if you did, I would come live below with you!” She tries, stealing the last remaining bread from off of his plate and shoving the whole chunk in her mouth. 

“And what if you got sick of it, living beneath the ground? Would my company surely be enough?”

“Oh, I suppose we could visit mother on the weekends and attend Sunday mass. And perhaps in the evenings, when it is darker above than below, we could walk through the cities and watch the stars,” she describes, and he grins at the idea, though his heart sunk, wondering if she would always view him as a friend. Love was not something to be forced. The Sultana could not force him into love, as he’d learned in Persia, and Christine could not be forced to love him. 

“I suppose,” he agrees, attempting to remain neutral, but it was difficult with that dazzling smile of hers. How he’d never noticed it before, at the opera house, was a mystery to him. 

“And besides,” she murmurs, gathering their plates and cloth napkins, “I much prefer you above ground, even if you dress primarily in black, insult my choice in lotion and sunburn so horribly.” 

“Careful, Meg Giry,” he warns playfully, standing with her. “Or I shall slowly darken your wardrobe and implement my own personal tastes in fragrances.” 

And with that, the reminder that the only black piece of clothing she owned was a funeral gown, which she had left in Paris. 

Meg gulps, telling herself loudly in her mind that her father wasn’t gone yet, and that he still had a chance. And perhaps with her mother there, he would pull through. 

He seemed to notice the shift in her mood and slowly peeled the items from her hands, bringing them to the kitchen and placing them on the small dining table. The blonde perched herself on the couch, sinking into its weight, and wishing it was her mother on the mattress instead of her. 

Rain fell steadily outside as Erik busied himself in the tenement, and Meg closed her eyes against a sudden onslaught of tears, wanting comfort, but grateful to not be asked of her sadness again. 

The blonde dozed up to the calming trickle against the window, and Erik pulled the soft, pink blanket over her body, brushing her hair back with his palm as he had normally done when she was sick, and standing above her, a sudden painful twisting and clenching in his chest. 

Christine. 

He darts out the door, into the freezing rain, and blindly climbs the stairs, uncaring that he would certainly catch a cold by tomorrow. He stood out, on the ledge, and as if he were reliving it all, everything came back to him. His evening lessons with Christine, her tangible grief from years back, her compassion, her desperation, her beauty, her kind soul. And the blasted vicomte, and he hated how angry the thought of him still roiled deep in his stomach. 

It felt so long ago, yet the pain was still a fresh, sharp knife. He yelled out, growling and raging, livid and hurt and so, so tired . . . he was so tired of all of this, that the past couldn’t stay where he had left it. 

But wasn’t that what he was always doing, what he always had done? Hop from place to place, seeking freedom and liberation, always looking for a new start and a second chance. But now, he was certain, this would be the end of the Phantom. There would be no more opera ghost, no more of any of it. He wanted peace, so badly, so badly it hurt more than his buried past, and he knew he could find it. He wished, more than anything, that he could find it. 

And with a choked scream, he yanked the black onyx from his finger, and without a second thought, threw it as far as he could way from himself. Away went the pain, the anger. Away went his painful history in Persia, where he’d been given the ring. And away went his all-consuming love for Christine, over the edge. 

His last kill would be the past. 

He toppled to his knees in a heap, heavy, deep sobs escaping him, and he buried his face into his hands, heaving and gasping. It was excruciating, to cut ties with everything he had been victim to for so long, but he was tired. 

“Marguerite . . . Marguerite . . . Marguerite . . .” He whispered her name like a promise, and it comforted him, just to say it, just to know he wasn’t alone. Erik knew, without a doubt, that even though she was wrought with devastation and exhaustion, if she knew he was up here, the blonde would hold him, even in the blinding cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW THIS WAS A SERIOUS CHAPTER and there will be some harder chapters coming soon, so i have some fluff promised for the next update (WHICH I AM VERY VERY VERY EXCITED FOR HDJKSHJKHHKJHJK). 
> 
> i love you all! thank you so much for reading :). if you enjoyed, don't hesitate to comment or leave kudos! i love reading through your reactions :). see you all soon!


	21. twenty-one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my lovely readers! here is the next update :) i hope you enjoy! 
> 
> just for some excitement: there is a HUGE discovery made

Fleur and George must have arrived back late last night, Meg wonders, as she awakes under the morning gloom. She rolls over to find Erik laying beside the couch, where she had once rested, asleep and relaxed, his deformed cheek pressed against the pillow. 

Despite the heavy weight on her chest, kneeling beside him, a grin played on her mouth. 

“Good morning,” she murmurs, watching as his eyelashes flutter when her fingers connect with his shoulder. Even though the eyebrow on the deformed side was missing, his eyelashes were long and black, and frankly, Meg was jealous of them. 

“Not really,” he groans, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “I’ve never felt such soreness in my life.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she grins, and she’s tempted to twine her fingers into his curls, but resists, and trails her hand down to his crook of his elbow. 

“As if you have room to judge,” he jokes, the edge of his mouth arching up the slightest bit. 

This time, without hesitation, as if she couldn’t help herself, Meg reaches out and cups his smooth cheek, brushing her thumb against the upturn of his lip. His grin immediately drops, and after realizing she’d touched him, she began to pull away, apologizing frantically, but his hand caught her own, and held it against his cheek. Erik’s eyelids fluttered closed, and his lips parted against her thumb. Warm breath blew against the pad of her finger, and despite the heat of it, a shiver wracked her spine, especially when she noticed the onyx was gone. 

His fingers were a comfortable weight on her own, as if they were an extension from the tips of her hands and connecting them. 

Her heart was beating so quickly that she worried he was able to hear it. And for a moment, she considered leaning and kissing him, but refrained, worry pumping through her as if it were blood. 

In a moment, however, she heard the door open in front of them, and he curled away, clutching the ravaged side of his face. Meg quickled looked around, wishing to find his mask, and spotted it at the end of the couch, where her feet had been. 

“Here,” she whispers, unbending the wires that would cradle his scalp, and he slowly takes it from her with one hand, and then completely turns and quickly places the mask over his face. She watches as his fingers, almost languidly sensual, smooth the wires against his curls. The small droop of his shoulders made her wonder if he felt embarrassed by his obvious crutch, but once he stood, his confident persona returned, though his hair was a wild mess. 

“Good morning, Fleur!” Meg greets as Erik extends a hand to the blonde, and eases her up. She kept a tight grip on his hand, and in return, he curled his fingers around hers. 

“Good morning, dear,” she grins, opening the door wider as George and a gurgling Robin stepped through. “I’m glad you seem to be in good spirits today.” 

“I guess,” she shrugs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and leaning closer to Erik. “I don’t really want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course not, dear. I completely understand.” Robin was switched into her arms, and she cradled the child close to her heart. “Perhaps you should spend some time outside today. I heard the carnival is in town.”

“The carnival?” She questions, excitement flourishing in her heart, and Erik detected this change, and glanced down at her. Her eyes had lit up, wide and blue, and he saw her toes curl in response. Affection was a warm silk that spread across his limbs and thoughts, and it was so unlike anything he’d ever felt before. 

“Only for a few days, so you both should hurry. I hear the cotton candy is running low,” she winks, and Meg smiles widely, nearly bouncing on her toes. 

“We must go!” She exclaims, pulling on Erik’s hand. 

Though he felt almost sick to his stomach at the thought - so many people, so many memories - he found it nearly impossible to say no. And with a smirk, Erik realized she had him wrapped around her finger, and he didn’t care. 

“Then we will,” he agrees, and she, nearly shaking from excitement, grabs her day clothes and sprints off to the bathroom down the hall, and he could tell she was ignoring the urge to skip. 

“You look at her as if you’ve loved her since your first breath,” Fleur says, and he looks away from her, hands clenched and buried into his pockets. 

Perhaps I have. 

“She . . . She could be the ugliest thing, even uglier than I, and her smile could still bring the world to its knees, and I’d find her beautiful, even still.” It was a rare admission, and while it was vulnerable and difficult, it was true. It was the only thing he wanted to shout to the whole world, until everyone knew her name. 

“And that, Erik, is why you aren’t a monster.” 

He didn’t say anything back, simply kept his eyes closed and fists buried deeply in his pockets until he heard the chaotic sprint of Meg returning. 

“Let’s go let’s go let’s go letsgoletsgo!” She grins, and he turns back toward her, feeling an arm wind around his. 

“Keep an eye on him. I fear he’s a troublemaker, that one,” she winks at Meg, humor in her eyes, and the blonde snickers. 

“I think it’s you who is the troublemaker,” he smirks, and she bumps her hip with his - this required rolling up to the balls of her feet - before practically pulling him out the door. He grabbed the jet-black fedora and her forgotten coat before leaving. 

“Where do you think it is?” She questions, glancing both ways up the street, as if looking for brightly colored tents or cheery tunes. 

“We’ll start this way,” he decides, cocking his head to their right and unwinding his arms from hers. He places the fedora on his head before holding the coat up for the blonde, and she snakes her arms into it. He holds an arm out for her, but she simply takes his hand instead, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. 

“Did you lose your ring?” She asks as they begin to enter a more crowded area, and he seems to shrink, uncomfortable with the large number of people. Meg, however, smiled and waved at nearly everyone they passed. 

“No.” Just a single word, a simple reply, and he offered no more or no less. And Meg knew not to press. 

“Well, I don’t have one anymore either, so I suppose we will simply have to make believe,” she grins. 

“Oh, yes. It is rather scandalous to be seen holding hands with a man you are not married to,” he smirks, and she giggles before pulling him over to a grassy patch at a park, where children were playing and laughing loudly. 

“Come here!” She grins, falling to her knees besides a ring of flowers, brightly yellow and small. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“They are weeds, Meg. They suck the life from the other more prosperous plants.” 

“Hush! I think they are beautiful,” she murmurs as he kneels beside her, watching as she yanks two of the yellow weeds from the ground, small petals of sunshine bursting from the middle. 

She turns and grabs his hand with a smile, and ever so carefully, she knots the stem around his wedding finger, so the flower faces upwards. His hand trembles, and he can barely stop his imagination as it flies, imagining something golden entwining his finger and the girl across from him in white. 

“You are not a weed, Erik,” she whispers, her eyes raising to his, and the sadness in his own nearly choked her. “Will you put one of me? I’ve always been horrid and flower rings.” 

“Well, I must boast that I am quite talented at creating flower rings,” he jokes, despite the grief in his eyes, and she giggles as he loops the flower around her own wedding finger, knotting it similarly. 

“Oh, if only we had met when we were younger! Surely you could have made me more!” She chuckles, and he helps her to her feet, watching as sunlight streaks across her features. 

“I’m quite sure you would have taken advantage. Now, cotton candy?” 

“Yes!” She replies, and he intakes breath sharply as the blonde grabs his hand again, pulling him toward the oncoming carnival. 

“Barnum and Bailey’s,” he reads aloud, and he cringes at the sound of circus music erupting around them, high and cheery and completely terrible. But the grip of Meg’s hand grounded him. 

“Oh! I’m so excited!” She gasps as they enter, and he glances down at her, wishing to capture every ounce of her joy that was so blatant on her expression. She felt so deeply, that he swore he could reach out and touch her emotions. 

Erik notices the strange looks people cast their way, and the disproving looks at the flowers tied around their fingers, but she didn’t give them a second glance. 

Like she didn’t care what other people thought. 

“Can we get the pink kind?” She asks, and his fingers itch around in his pocket, removing two coins. 

“10 cents,” the man behind the counter says, and Erik hands the change over, receiving the cone of cotton candy, and handing it to Meg. 

Her eyes go bug-eyed as he hands the sweet treat to her, and she thanks the man behind the counter in English before her and Erik step away. 

She nearly thought she was going to cry when she ripped off a bite of the pink delicacy and shoved it into her mouth. “This is lovely,” she moans, offering it to Erik. 

“Meg, it’s yours -“

“Nope!” She cuts him off, holding a finger up to his lips. “I don’t mind. We can share.” She grins up at him as he reaches forward to take a bite, and she watches as his tongue darts forward to catch the leftover sugar in his lips. 

“That is divine,” he emphasizes, and she giggles, nodding. 

“I told you!” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was a little while later that Erik was to return to Hammerstein’s. Meg accompanied him, carrying the cone of cotton candy still, hands still twined together as they made their way to the large building. 

“Your hand is dreadfully sticky, mon lutin,” he complains, wiggling his fingers around hers, and she grins. 

“Now yours is, too!” 

“Mmmm, you’re right. I can’t compose with sticky fingers.” And he lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking on the tips, and Meg’s gaze dropped toward his mouth before glancing away, blushing. 

Though he lacked true confidence and, really, any self-esteem, it seemed as if everything he did was sensual and smooth. She knew that if he had ever pursued dancing, he would have surely excelled at it. How could a man have literal crippling insecurities, yet be so . . . bold?

“Can I come back with you?” She asks, and the hand that had just been in his mouth lowers to the middle of her back. 

“Follow me.” 

He led her past different shapes of offices, and what she suspected to be the double doors to an auditorium. At last, after what seemed like miles and miles, they came to an office door, to which he opened the door, entering at the same time as her. 

It was a small room, but sufficient, nonetheless. It wasn’t grand, but a piano stood in the middle of the room, and Meg could tell by the scuff marks on the floor that he had pulled it away from the wall. Music was littered across the piano, and sheets hung against the wall, but other than that, everything was neatly organized. 

It was an uncomfortable thing for Meg to be alone. She preferred to be alone when practicing for auditions or rehearsals, but otherwise, much preferred the company of others, even if it was completely silent. She was grateful that he remained by her side since her mother left, but worried constantly whether he was comfortable or not, and whether he would verbalize if he wasn’t. 

The only other chair in the room was a desk that was shoved into the corner, so she sat upon it, pulling her knees up to her chest and watched as he lowered himself onto the piano bench, a pen already in his left hand. 

She laid her head on her crossed elbows as he began to work through his compositions, and Meg fingered his notebook, brushing against the cover and the spine. 

His music was exactly as she thought it would be, but somehow better. It was slow and dramatic, and then racing and beating, and then heartbreaking and angry. When Erik’s fingers connected with the keys, he seemed to forget everything. Of the world, of her, maybe even his pain. But she heard it so exquisitely spoken in his melodies, that it was impossible to differentiate what he knew and what he wanted. 

When he is deep within one of his pieces, she flips the notebook open, squinting as she rifles through the pages, careful not to read any of them until she comes upon a blank page. At the top of that, in a messy, loopy scrawl, she writes ‘reasons why you’re beautiful. First - you made today special. Second - you breathe melodies like you’re music. Third - I know you don’t like how messy your hair is, but I think it makes you handsome. Four - you’ve taught me so many new things.’

She amended to write them as they came, and with a grin, imagined him finding it when he was worn, and feeling comforted by her words. It was always something she wished for - to find little notes from her friends in secret places - so she wanted to give it to him. 

She began to ponder her day, pulling her knees up to her chest and leaning against the back of the chair, staring as he tortured the keys with some sort of chromatic ornament beneath a sweeping, whimsical chord. It made her feel like she was in a fairytale, and she imagined being dressed in a large ball gown, the ends barely brushing the floor, and her feet laced with dainty, wonderful shoes. She imagined the sleeves would be long and elegant, and beautiful jewelry and makeup would adorn her body. 

And then she envisioned Erik taking her into his arms as his tempo quickly settled into a waltz time. He would smirk at her, as per his normal look, and steal her breath as an arm would snake around her waist, fingers twining with her own. And he would gaze at her as if she were the only woman in the world, and they would dance the night away. And maybe then, at the end, when they were out of breath and laughing, he’d lean down and whisper those words she’d wished to hear from him for so long. 

Despite the cotton candy, her stomach rumbled with hunger, and she quickly stood, sliding back into her boots. 

“Erik?” She questions, and it startled her how quickly he stopped and turned to gaze at her, hands dropping to his lap. He looked as if he had all the time in the world for whatever she was about to say even though she fully knew he wasn’t anywhere close to finishing the new composition. 

“I wanted to grab a bite to eat. Would you like anything?” She questions, and he shakes his head no. 

“I’m quite fine, but would you deliver these to Hammerstein? His office is across from the kitchen. There’s a small box, almost like a mailbox, you can drop these into.” He hands three or four pages to her, and Meg ignores the frantic thumping of her heart as their pinkies touch. 

“Y-yes, I can,” she replies, and he turns back to his music, immediately setting forth to complete the next measure. 

She walks out the door, holding the papers close to her chest, and makes her way down the hallway, ignoring how eerie the place appeared at night. She glances back door a moment before moving forward toward the main room, where she knew the kitchen to be. 

There, she saw his box in the dimming light, and carefully placed the sheets in there, though not before noticing a strange substance had completely filled the entire thing. 

It had a strong, metallic scent, and when she brushed some of the substance on her fingertip and drew it to her nose, she realized it was blood. 

She gasps, a choked scream rising from her, and she sees a letter resting just below, dots of blood spilling on the paper. 

With a breath, she leans down and opens it. 

Dear Boss,   
So you say the police have caught me? Well, I say they haven’t fixed me just yet! How good of a laugh it gave me when they talk about being RIGHT on track. A Leather Apron? I’m sure! A favorite joke of mine, I suppose. And I suppose you should certainly wish me well for my last job! I didn’t even allow the lady enough time to squeal! I love my work and wish to do it again. You will soon hear of me and my funny little games. I saved some of the proper RED stuff but it was thick as glue so I had a heck of a time getting it here. So I suppose I can’t write this in blood. But red ink will do HA. HA. I think for my next one, I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send it to the police officers for a jolly. My knife is very sharp, so keep straight. I truly do wish you the best of luck. 

Yours truly, 

Jack the Ripper 

P.S. Don’t mind the trade name. Also, wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. They say I’m a doctor now. HA HA

Meg shook wildly as she read through it, the entire thing written in red ink, which she now suspected to be something much more sinister. What bothered her most was the blood from when she touched it staining the back of the letter, but that the ink is so fresh that her thumbs were smearing it. 

She was confused, especially with the strange grammar errors, and for certain, why it was written in French. 

With a sob, she crumbles the paper into her pocket, and hugs the sheet music close to her as she spirals, backing against a countertop and knocking various dishes to the floor. 

There was a shout inside the auditorium, and she fled there, bursting the doors open with intensity, only to scream at the sight she beheld. 

A woman was face down, dress pulled up and flowed against her lower back. A large circle of blood appeared at the center of her back. She was blonde, similar in stature to her, and appeared to have been a ballerina. 

“She might still be alive!” Meg screeched, tears rolling down her cheeks as she rolled the woman into her back, and sobbed at the sight of dead, cold eyes, distant and glazed. 

Blood covered her hands as she pulled the coat from the woman, resting fingertips against the pulse point at her neck. There was no flutter beneath them, and no rising and falling of her chest. What frightened her most was her body was still warm, so she must have just passed. 

She was too late. 

Meg gently closes the woman’s eyelids and crosses her arms in an ‘x’ over her chest, and stands on shaky legs, backing away with apologies on her lips. 

She knew it wasn’t her fault, but still, the agonizing thought of if she had just been a few minutes earlier weighs heavily on her mind. 

The other woman that had found her was near Meg’s age - perhaps a few years older - and knelt on the ground next to the body, sobbing in sheer terror. The blonde kneels next to her, embraces her, but neither can take their eyes off of the horrific sight before them. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Meg murmurs in hitched breaths, though she eventually cuts off, sobs shaking her chest as both women embrace each other, completely strangers. 

Suddenly, there was a clamor, and a group of people are now standing in the doorway. She recognizes one of them to be Erik, and she lifts her gaze to him, and he meets hers intensely and worriedly, skimming over the blood that stained her fingers and hands and dress and knees and everything, everything was crimson and blood and death, so much death, too much too much too much and Meg could barely breathe, barely breathe - 

She darts away, throwing the letter onto the ground and runs, runs as fast as she can, multiple yells of her name erupting behind her, though only one remains as she finally reaches the beach. 

“Meg!” He yells as she collapses to her knees at the shore, fiercely rubbing her hands in the water, blood stuck beneath her fingernails.

It really was thicker than glue. 

“Marguerite,” he says, quieter this time, and she feels him lower himself behind her, and snake his arms down the outside of hers, cradling her hands. 

“Let me,” he whispers, and the masked man gently rubs away the blood with his own wet fingers before cleaning her palms and elbows. He then motions for her to sit, and still leaning over her, rubs away the scarlet staining her knees. 

“Erik,” her voice breaks, and her head tilts forward, and his hands cup her shoulders, keeping her from landing into the sea. “Who was she?” 

“The lead,” he says in a hushed breath, and she buries her face into her hands, gasping irregularly. She could barely cry, barely scream, barely breathe. She couldn’t forget the sight of the body, the sight of murder, and her mind reeled back to nearly a year ago, when a man swung above her. 

She was in the arms of a murderer, yet she never felt safer. 

“I don’t want to die!” She cries, and his arms come tightly around her as she trembles. 

“You’re not going to,” he promises fiercely. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

“His name is Jack the Ripper,” she chokes, and then gags when she remembers the blood filling the mailbox. She knew that if her stomach weren’t empty, she surely would have been sick. “He wrote a letter to Hammerstein.” 

“And him and the police are figuring it out. We rest tonight, and then fight tomorrow, Meg. You need sleep.” 

“I don’t want to sleep!” She sobs, turning in his arms and grabbing onto the collar of his shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “I want to find him, and I want to make him pay!” 

His eyes searched hers as she finally began to cry, and her face crumbled as she leaned against him, burying herself into his chest. Erik stiffened at first, but fingers drifted up to her hair and gently combed through it. 

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, and she only trembles in reply, and he feels a moist warmth against his chest. 

“I’m so cold,” she whimpers, holding his collar with white knuckles, and Erik locks an arm around her waist and helps her stand. 

“You’re in shock,” he tells her gently, and wraps her in the coat he must have thrown on before coming to her. 

“I want to go home,” she cries, and an arm wraps around her shoulder as she stumbles. “I want to go back to Paris.” 

He gulps, and moves in front of her, gently buttoning the coat to conserve as much warmth into her frigid skin. 

“Take me back!” She demands, grabbing his hands, her eyes bloodshot and darkly circled. “I want to go back to Christine and Maman and dancing . . . “ She felt so childish, and she hated it, hated her childish words, but it’s all she could muster. She certainly felt like a child, so small and incapable, stuck in the middle of something that was so much larger than herself. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, and tugs her closer. She completely molds herself to his arm as he leads her away from the beach. 

Guilt was heavy and fierce, knowing it was he that had caused Meg to leave her home. 

The only noise between them were the gasps of Meg’s terror, and not for the first time, he began to worry for her mental state. And with a guilty conscience, he knew that his past crimes certainly hadn’t helped. 

Once they arrived, he led Meg to the table, and made her drink a cup of chamomile, and only then was she able to finally relax. In the same cup, he pours in a flask of amber-colored liquid, and she glances up at him, pink rimming her eyes. 

“What’s that?”

“To help you sleep, my dear.” And so she lifts it to her mouth, and chokes on the burning liquid, despite it being cold. It stung as it went to her stomach, and she coughed wildly, but all the same, she wanted nothing more than to sleep. 

She stands shakily and makes her way to the couch, and when he helps her lay across it, she grasps his hand desperately. “Please don’t leave me alone.” 

“Meg - “ he begins to argue, but at the sheer look of horror in her eyes, he relents. 

She bends her knees and scoots down so he has a place to sit, and his thigh rests against the crown of her head. She curls under the blanket, and after a brief, silent period of irregular breathing, she seems to drift off. 

Erik closes the curtains behind them, cloaking the room in a heavy darkness. He considers moving, but instead leans against the back of the couch, breathing deeply. He prays she doesn’t have any nightmares, but from his own experience, he knows she’ll be haunted by what she’d seen that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it just be like that sometimes 😃👍💀
> 
> ANYWAYS i hope y’all enjoy! please tell me your thoughts!!


	22. chapter twenty-two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! i apologize for the late update. life is hectic right now, so i gave you guys a longer chapter. i hope you all enjoy! love you guys :)

The nightmares came back. 

Meg awoke in a cold sweat, gasping and crying as Erik shushed her gently, cold fingers brushing hair away from her wet cheeks to settle over his thigh. 

“Was it the clock again? With your father?” He whispers, and she nods, turning her face into the couch cushions. 

“What time is it?” She questions, and he leans over the top of the couch to allow a small stream of moonlight into the room to illuminate his watch. 

“It’s around four in the morning,” he replies, pulling the blanket back over her shoulders. “Go back to sleep, Meg, even if it’s just being still. You’re surely exhausted, and I’m rather certain you’ll be brought into questioning tomorrow.” 

“Tell me a story,” she murmurs, lifting her head to place it on his thigh. “Is this alright?” 

He nearly chokes on his words, though he laces his hands together to keep them from shaking, even though she probably couldn’t even see them. “What would you like to hear?” 

Erik hears her sniff, and watches as she swipes at the moisture that had collected under her eyes and cheeks. His heart pulled and wished to comfort her, though his hands would not stop trembling. 

“The Thousand and One Nights,” she states. “Do you know that one?” 

And indeed, he did. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He had been fifteen and sick with influenza, and the little blonde spitfire had been sitting on the floor, against her mother’s leg. 

Madame Giry had placed a cold compress on his forehead as he shivered under the blankets, sweating profusely. She was worried - that much was evident - and he didn’t miss the rosary that was clutched tightly in her hand, which she had eventually handed to the small blonde. 

“How about a story, Erik? You certainly love those.” 

“Oui, Maman! A story!” Meg exclaims, clapping her hands together excitedly. The mother circled her neck with the rosary and lifted the squealing blonde into her arms, depositing her onto the side of the bed. She herself pulled a chair up beside the mattress, and the raven-haired boy struggled to open his eyes. 

“Rest, Erik. I will certainly take no offense if you fall asleep - that is rather the point,” she grins, and Erik returns the physical sentiment. 

“Oh, Maman, will you read Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp? That one surely is my favorite!” She exclaims, and her mother relents. 

It had been the first time Erik had felt part of a family. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Can you do —“

“Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp,” he finishes, and she glances up at him questioningly, rolling onto her back. 

“Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to say,” she whispers, and he wanted to trace the stars in her eyes. 

“It’s my favorite, too,” he murmurs, “though it has a rather bittersweet ending.” 

“Then perhaps you should tell The Tale of the Hunchback. The one where they bring him back to life at the end,” Meg replies. “I like the stories with happy endings better.” 

After a moment, he collects himself, breathing evenly now. “Then close your eyes, petit lutin.” Her eyes flutter closed as she turns on her side, facing him, and falls under the spell of his silken baritone. 

“Many moons ago, in a place called Basrah, there was once a tailor and his wife, who stumbled upon a pleasing hunchback.” 

And after he was finished with the tale, Meg had fallen asleep, and he felt warm, bare breath stir the loose clothing on his legs. 

He’d already gotten a few hours of sleep, and didn’t require much more than that. So instead, he kept watch over the blonde, glancing out the window periodically and checking on her movements, to frighten away all intruding nightmares. 

It wasn’t long after that that she awoke for the last and final time that morning, and he could tell her head ached with pain and exhaustion. But she didn’t mutter a word, and instead turned away from the light, burying her face into the place above his knee. 

It was difficult to think about what she may need, in terms of emotionally. He looked her over with a clinical eye, and made several deductions of her physical state, but knew nothing of the emotions she was experiencing. Throughout his life, Erik had faced misery, and though he was no stranger to death, the murder of the young woman still shook him, and the quiet blonde on his lap frightened him. But how was he to comfort her? Meg seemed to take what she needed, when she needed it, unafraid to ask. Should he be the same way? 

“You should eat, Meg. You barely ate anything yesterday . . . I promise you’ll feel better if you eat,” he murmurs, and Erik feels her snort. 

“Says the man who has definitely gone days without eating,” Meg replies, and she could practically hear his eyes rolling in his head. 

“Unlike you, my dear, I don’t break my body doing ballet,” he says, and now it was her turn to roll her eyes. Though her head hurt something awful, she rolled onto her back, looking up at him. 

From here, she could see some of his deformity. Meg could see the rough patch of scars on the hidden corner of his lips, and the bloated lower one that was dark within the mask’s shadow. She saw angry red lines on his jaw, and tiny scars that seemed to litter his neck. And near the base of it, where his dark curls were beginning to reach, there was a thin line wrapped around, the scar so light she could barely see it. 

“What’s that?” She questions, sitting up now and twisting so she can gently brush her fingers against the strange ring encircling his neck. Erik flinched when she made contact, but her eyes caught his, and she saw panic in them, almost like the mere touch there brought back horrific memories. 

“That, Meg,” he breathes, “is from the man who taught me how to kill.”

“But . . .” She stammers, eyes widening. “Why would he?”

“You misunderstand me,” he states, almost monotonously, as if he’d removed himself entirely from his words. “I was never taught in the sense of what you are thinking. I learned from having it done to me.”

“Oh . . . oh, Erik,” she murmurs, reaching up to cup his bare cheek, but he shruged away from her touch, not accepting it. 

“Do not pity me for my past, Meg, for I have more than made up for the sins done against me with my own. And I haven’t any regrets, for I would not have survived Persia if not for this,” he grumbles, finger jutting up toward the scar. “Now come,” he beckons, standing and holding a hand out to her. “Hammerstein wanted to meet for breakfast to discuss payment, and I won’t leave you here by yourself.”

“I don’t really want to do anything, Erik,” Meg murmurs, drawing her knees up to her chest. “I don’t feel like moving today, really.” Her face was downcast, and he softened, fists clenching before releasing. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he agrees, and Meg lays back down across the couch, the place where he had just been sitting warming the side of her head. “Promise me you’ll eat something.”

She nods, pulling the blanket over her shoulders and closing her eyes. Erik, heart now tugging with compassion for the blonde, picked up Meg’s rosary that was laying next to her bag and leaned over her, placing the object by her chest. He then remembered all those times when he desperately wanted someone there, wanted someone to sit with him, to hold his hand as he cried. 

But most of all, all those times when he curled into a corner, pretending the walls were arms holding him. 

It broke his heart to envision Meg doing the same.

“Meg . . . Meg, if you don’t want to be alone, I can send him word to find me tomorrow -” He begins, but she waves him off, grasping the rosary. 

“I’ll be okay. I just want to go back to sleep,” she replies, and he nods, feeling awkward just standing above her. 

“If . . . if you do feel up to it, we need more bread and apples from the market,” he says, placing a small pouch of money atop the table. 

“Okay,” she whispers, curling further into the blanket, and he looks at her helplessly. 

“If the police come, or if anyone gives you any trouble, come and find me,” he instructs, and she nods numbly, closing her eyes. 

Worry filled him at the thought of leaving Meg there alone. Fleur, George and Robin tended to disappear for most of the day now, leaving the two alone in the tenement. However, the blonde thrived off of social interaction, and even just having another person sharing her space with her, and he wondered if she would be alright, being alone for the next few hours. 

It made sense, he thought, given she rarely had any time spent alone. He had watched her when the girl was very young, but as she grew, his attentions switched, and eventually landed on a lofty brunette. But even still, he watched over them both, over all of his chorus performers. 

Erik knew that, on occasion, Meg would separate from the group and sit in the chapel. He never thought much of it, never having been interested in her much beyond her otherworldly passion, but now he regretted not having met her sooner. 

The blonde would usually do no more than run there during odd hours of the evening, and sit against the large cross near the front of the room. Sometimes, she would pray, wide, toothy grins painting her mouth, and others, shaking from sobs and clutching her rosary tightly in her fingers. She’d dance around the small, holy room, invisible strings and keys echoing in her head, and others, she’d read her novels next to candlelight. 

He remembered, then, when she must have been twelve or thirteen, and another ballet girl had said something nasty to her, she’d locked herself in the chapel, and had forgotten her novels. The blonde had fallen asleep nearly an eternity later, and taking pity, Erik had found one of his own and laid it next to her. 

He saw this same novel poking out of her bag, entitled “Les Miserables”. 

An idea wove in his head, spinning to completion, and he grabbed the coin bag, drawing a few from the silken thing and placing it back down. 

She was unmoving as he left, though still awake. The moment Meg heard the door close, she hopped from the cushions, wincing as she put weight on her ankles, which felt sore and swollen. The dancer stepped toward Erik’s bag, and removed his robe, still smelling so much like him, and slipping the blue thing over her shoulders, tying the sash. 

Usually, when seeking comfort, she’d talk with her mother, or find an empty, alone space to dance. She’d also learned how to become lost between pages, to become sucked so far into words and sentences until she was gone. 

But she felt too tired to dance, too worn and too spent. And the last thing she surely wanted to do was dive into a tale that was anywhere near similar to hers. 

Her stomach grumbled as she sat before the small dining table, laying her head against the cool wood. She’d seen the dead before, had been to many funerals in the past handful of years, though none such as bad last night, when she’d seen the mutilated woman. And everytime she remembered - as if she could forget - she felt as if she would vomit. 

She buried her nose into the too-long sleeve of the robe, and silently willed the unsettling, bothered feeling in her abdomen to lessen. It almost felt like anxiety - an overwhelming amount - and she felt empty, so empty that she wondered how she’d ever learn to see beyond everyone she’d seen in the past few months. 

There was a knock on the door, then, and she gathered the robe tighter around her, head lifting quickly. She was hesitant as she stalked over to the door, looking at the tall, manly, almost familiar shadow. There was another series of sharp raps on the door, louder and more intense this time, and they both frightened and angered the blonde. 

As she came to the door, she slowly swung it open, only to reveal a tall, burly-looking man, in a way that Meg can only describe as huge. He towered well over her, his chest larger than the width of her body, and his hands were beings in themselves as they hung by his sides. 

“Y-yes?” She stutters, barely able to meet his gaze as he stared down at her. “I speak very little English -“

“Your dues, madame. You’re late,” he replies gruffly, and Meg’s eyes widen as she finds the bag of coins with her eyes, and hurries over. 

“H-how much?” She stammers, opening the bag with trembling hands. 

“Fifty cents,” he replies, and her eyes widen largely as she digs through the small bag. 

“We . . . We don’t have that much . . . Only about twenty cents . . . But my husband will be paid soon. We can get you the money then!” She tries, fear in her eyes. What would happen if they didn’t have the money? 

And where were Fleur and George? 

“There are, certainly, other ways to pay me, I should think,” he grins, reaching out to touch her shoulder, and she backs away, snarling. 

“I am a married woman, and even if I weren’t, I would adamantly refuse even still!” The blonde grits out, angry. 

“Perhaps we could work out an agreement,” he presents, touching her waist this time, and Meg shoves him roughly away, baring her teeth as he grappled for her wrists. 

As Meg cried out, there was a commotion behind them, and the man was knocked over, hit harshly with the heel of a boot to the temple. He stumbled, only to reveal Fleck, who looked livid. 

“Oh,” Meg gasped as the redhead caught the stumbling blonde into her arms, the dancer’s already tired muscles collapsing underneath her. 

“Oh, Meg, are you alright?” She questions, holding the blonde tightly. “I hadn’t a clue he’d be here . . . Trust me, if I did, I would have clocked him over the head long before this!” 

“You . . . you know who this is?” Meg gasps, pushing Fleck away and staring at her with confusion, fists clenched. “Is this not the owner?” 

“Meg, no, he is,” she reassures. “He’s one of my . . . Clients, and he must have seen me come here once or twice.” 

The blonde nods, though she crosses her arms and shivers into her robe. “I don’t want this man here . . . Can we call the police? I should find my husband as well, and hunt down wherever our housemates are at.” 

“Or, you should sit down,” she tells her, leading the blonde outside, away from the burly male, and setting her on one of the chairs. “Breathe for a moment, Meg. You look exhausted.”

“Will you go get the police, Fleck? I’ll just wait here,” she says, locking the door from the outside with a key. “I don’t think I could even walk that far.” 

“Alright, blondie. Sit tight,” Fleck agrees, taking off in a dead sprint down the stairs, and off towards wherever the station was. 

Though she wanted Erik’s protective presence, she didn’t want him to keep her on a leash. She was being targeted, but regardless, she was her own person and wanted freedom. 

Meg decided she wouldn’t tell him about this new development unless it came to it. She didn’t care if he punched the man so hard he landed into next Tuesday, but she did care if he would be too anxious to leave her by herself. 

Although, she could have done with his arms wrapped around her that moment. 

It was then that she noticed something under one of the bricks littering the front of the floor of the tenement. 

Gasping in air, so quickly that she nearly chokes, Meg kneels down next to it, and carefully removing the brick, pulls two small photographs from beneath it. 

There, she saw a picture of her father, torn away from a larger one, and what seemed to be an unknowing one of Erik, only the back of him, but she recognized his features, the sharpness of his jaw and small carving of the mask on the side. She recognized his hands, both which were curled into fists, and perhaps four or five rings gleaming on his fingers. 

And they were both circled in red ink, x’s marked over eyes, or the back of the head. 

In Meg’s hands, she held the two men that mattered most to her in her life. 

And after a moment of fear and nearly whimpering, anger swirled through her, and she gazed at the red crossing the pictures again before turning back and kicking open the door, to find the man waking and rubbing his now sore head. 

Meg thought it was blood dripping from his pocket and fingers, but there was none dotting his temple, and it seemed more liquid than thick. 

It was ink. 

And all Meg saw was red. 

“You put these there, didn’t you!” She screeches, throwing the pictures on the ground and clenching her fists. 

The man didn’t quite seem all there, but she saw the instant recognition in his face when he spotted the pictures, and a surge of protective energy flooded her. 

No one would hurt them. 

“Who are you? Are you him? Are you Jack?” When she’d seen Jack in silhouette, he seemed taller and lankier, but perhaps the darkness cloaked his form well. 

“Rick,” is all he replies with, and then two officers and Fleck were in the doorway, and the red-head was running up to her, wrapping her arms around the blonde tightly. 

“The police contacted Hammerstein’s secretary and will be alerting your husband. He’ll be home soon, Meg,” she says, and the blonde nearly withers, her fingers reaching up to pinch either side of the bridge of her nose. 

“This is too much,” Meg groans, now more irritated than frightened. And why should she be frightened? She literally had a skilled murderer as her fake husband. 

Oh, how strange that sentence felt. She nearly cracked a grin from how absurd it sounded. 

“Why don’t you go sit down, Meg. I’ll wait for you outside until Erik arrives,” she suggested, and the blonde nods, the girls trailing through the door, ignoring whatever was happening inside.

Erik and Hammerstein were upon them faster than Meg could have imagined. All she could pay attention too, however, was the masked one, who had a head of sweat dripping down the bare side of his face, hair wild and clothes ruffled. He was out of breath, almost as if he’d sprinted the way here. 

“I leave you alone . . . For ten minutes . . . “ he pants, and he tugs Meg into his arms, and she leans against him heavily, arms still limp. He pushes her away, then, hands against her shoulders as his eyes survey her body. 

“Are you hurt?” He questions, and she shakes her head ‘no’. He breathes a shaky sigh of relief and wipes sweat away with his shirt sleeve. He enfolds her in his arms again, and for a moment, Meg enjoys how affectionate he was being with her, which was rare indeed. 

But the problem inside needed their attention. 

She slips her hands underneath his jacket, Fleck speaking to the officer, distracted and turned away. Meg presses her pointer finger against his lower back, and she feels a shutter echo through his spine at the pressure. But when she draws an ‘R’ and an ‘I’, he seems to recognize she’s giving him a message. 

‘C’, she loops, and then ‘K’, and Erik pulls away, tilting his head toward the tenement in a gesture, and she nods. But as his gaze lifts to the door behind her, it suddenly swings open, Rick handcuffed, with the two policemen escorting him out.

Erik leads Meg to the side, but not before the burly man suddenly wrenches out of their grip, and delivers a swift kick to the unexpecting masked man’s abdomen, sending him back a few steps, gasping as the air is knocked out of him. He spit in Erik’s direction, and Meg’s vision nearly blacked from how quickly she had a murderous urge. 

“You men!” Meg shrieks, darting forward and punching him straight in the jaw with so much ferocity and anger that yellowed teeth and crimson fling out of his mouth, straight over the edge. He growls, bunching his fists behind him and prepares to kick the girl in her throat, but she lashes out again, kneeing him in the groin. 

“Don’t touch him!” She growls, standing over the fallen man. “Don’t ever touch him again!” 

Meg shook wildly, unbelieving that she had done that, and from the memory of his hands on her. But none was so passionate as his treatment of Erik. Oh, she could have punched him a million more times! 

Hammerstein’s jaw was nearly against the floor as the police dragged the man up and led him down the stairs while Fleck grinned wildly, seemingly almost proud of Meg. And when she turned to make sure Erik was alright, he was staring up at her, awe and heartbreak written across his face. 

Had . . . Had she defended him? 

No one had ever done such a thing for him before. 

In that moment, Erik felt like crying and laughing, and his heart squeezed with something so lovely it was a wonder he didn’t jump up and kiss her then. 

He attempted to move, but a sharp pain near the bottom of his rib cage stopped him, where the kick had been placed, and he winces aloud, and all three of the remaining people look at him suddenly. 

“Erik?” Meg questions, moving closer, wiping the dots of blood away from the cracked knuckle atop atop her pointer finger. The blonde kneels down beside him, touching his upper arm gently, and stares at him worriedly. 

“I think I may have fractured a rib,” he gasps, and Meg’s eyes widen.

“Won’t that . . . Won’t that poke something inside of you?” She questions, fear in her eyes, fingers tightening against his arm. 

“The hope is that it won’t,” is all he replies with. 

“We’ll . . . We’ll go to the doctor,” she amends, looking back at Fleck and Hammerstein. “Will you help me get him there? Or . . . O-or perhaps it’s better if the doctor comes here. I don’t think you can walk very well.” And from the harsh, unsteady breathing coming from the masked man, she could discern that he was in considerable pain. 

“No doctors,” Erik grunts, and he sends a panicked look toward Meg, and she all at once understands he’s worried of being caught. And with another leap in logic, she realized he’d be killed for his crimes. 

She would be for hiding him, too. 

“We can’t afford it,” he adds on, and this, she knew, was true. They barely had enough for rent, and their resources for simple market items were running low. And though it was fine for now, they hadn’t the funds for new clothes or shoes, either. 

“I’ll pay for a doctor,” Fleck says, curling her wrists anxiously. “And I’m sure this lovely man would aid in helping you there.” She winks at Hammerstein, then, and Meg felt a giggle bubble up in her at the blush on his face.

He shakes his head again, but winces, and Meg cups his bare cheek, and he immediately turns to her, something akin to shock in his eyes. It was like before, when she was about to say something, and suddenly in Erik’s world, all that was important was her. 

“What were their names? Natalie?” She questions. “We can go to them, Erik. The ones that helped me when I was poisoned.” 

After a moment, he nods his agreement, and Meg waves Hammerstein over. Together, they lift Erik from beneath his shoulders, and the masked man hisses in pain, almost sobs. She reaches up to clutch the hand that was wrapped over her shoulder, and squeezes it tightly. 

Fleck led the way as Meg pointed out where the door was, and they knocked, and the couple that answered was almost shocked at the state Erik was in. 

“I’m afraid we’re making another visit,” Meg says, wincing, and Erik groans from the pain of being upright. 

It was all quick work, and she couldn’t bear to watch, but even as she closed her eyes, she held his hand tightly, a comfort to them both. It was strange, now, not having the cold band of his ring pressing against her fingers. She stole a glance at them, and saw that a pale ring-shaped patch of skin encircled the base of his finger, lighter than the rest of his skin. 

In that moment, Meg wanted to lace her fingers with his, to hold his hand tighter. It was so incredibly lonely, being a foreigner. She went from having many friends, a family, and a career to bring far away from her mother, her home, and her dearest friends. 

But something she’d never had before, was him. 

The blonde felt his fingers quiver for a moment, but then, twined them back, and she lay her head gently against the couch cushion. Golden hair brushed against his arms, and he closed his eyes, as if to memorize the feel of her hand tightly locked in his. 

It was when she was nearly asleep that she felt a hand shake her shoulder. 

“Hm?” She groans, and at first, all she was aware of was her slackened hand in Erik’s.

“I told you to let her sleep!” She hears the masked man hiss, and Meg glances up at whoever had awoken her, and found Hammerstein staring down at her. 

“What? Speak slower,” He says, in poor, slow French, and Meg giggles. 

“Have you learned some French, Sir?” Meg grins, lifting her head. 

“It’s . . . Important to speak with . . . Uh, employees,” he explains, and the blonde finds it more than sweet that he’d attempted to learn it, for whatever French person had come to work for him. It couldn’t be Erik, for he spoke English fluently. 

The sun was setting outside, and Meg felt so hungry she nearly was sick. The dancer was light-headed as she stood, and she removed her hands from Erik to steady herself. A long, dexterous hand shot out to steady her, and wrapped around her thigh. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, and Meg turns to look down, blushing deeply and nodding. He removes his hand, and she notices then that the buttons of his shirt were opened, and his chest was laid bare. Gauze was wrapped around his rib cage, spanning his stomach, and she gulped. 

Her eyes quickly flicked back up to his before turning, and she avoided whatever look was in his eyes just then. 

Erik glances down at his unbuttoned shirt, and clears his throat uncomfortably, and Meg turns her back to him, gesturing for Hammerstein. 

“Can you . . . Can you help me get him back?” She questions, and ignores her grumbling stomach as he comes forward. 

“Already on it! That’s why I . . . Woke you up,” he stumbles over the French words. He comes closer, and gently loops an arm under Erik’s shoulder, and the injured man groans as he’s lifted to a standing position. 

A bare, tattooed arm extends toward Meg, and she scurries over to him, slowly pressing herself against his side, unsure of how to help him. She was much too short to aid him in the way Hammerstein was, but she held his hand as it clutched her shoulder, and she wound her fingers around his waistband. 

Once they’d made it back to the tenement, they both help Erik lay down with pained groans, and the blonde apologizes far too many times than necessary. 

“Stop saying ‘I’m sorry’ so much,” Erik says and Meg fusses over him, forcing a pillow beneath his neck. 

“I’m sorr-“ she starts, and he grins, almost wide-faced and toothy. 

Her heart stuttered at the sight. Especially when his fingers began to inch towards hers. 

“I’d best be on my way,” Hammerstein interjects, and she turns toward him, and Erik pulls his hand away, almost grumpily. 

“Oh, of course! I’ll let you out,” she says, running up and helping the door open, but he waves her off. 

“I’m perfectly fine opening the door myself. No . . . Need to do what I can do . . . Perfectly fine,” he replies, and she nods. 

“Very well. We’ll see you soon, Sir.”

He was gone, and Meg, without sparing a glance at Erik, made her way to the kitchen and removed the last of the bread, two apples, a hunk of cheese, and half a pitcher of water. 

She brings the entire thing over, kneeling next to Erik, and turns to glance up at him. Fingers were pressed against his broken ribs, where his stomach was. There was a look of unease, of general dislike crossing his face. 

“Maybe some bread?” She offers, and he shakes his head. 

“M’ not hungry,” he replies, and Meg arches an eyebrow, but shrugs it off. He promises, however, that he’ll eat the next day. 

It was quiet between them, but she felt his eyes on her, and tried to still her breathing when she felt fingers gently skim the outer shell of her ear, which he tucked a strand of hair behind. 

“I have something for you,” he whispers, almost nervously, and she rotates, his hand falling away. “It’s in my coat pocket.” 

Her grin falls, and the blonde’s eyes become warmly affectionate, as if she were about to cry. “You got something for me?” 

She stands to retrieve it, and in his coat pocket is a finely, nearly wrapped object, heavier to the touch and rectangular shaped. 

Meg sits down where she was before, beside the couch on the floor, and Erik watches her expression as she unwraps the present, glued to each corner and crevice of her face. 

Tears filled her eyes as she held the newest edition of ‘Frankenstein’. The binding was gorgeous, hardcover and smooth, with a brilliant blue cover. The pages were stained gold, and it was hers. It was all hers. 

As she opened the cover, she found writing already there, and recognized the romantic loops as Erik’s immediately. But this time, it wasn’t in that horrid red, but instead in a soft pink. 

“To my dearest friend,” it read. “Happy Birthday, Marguerite. From your own monster, who would follow you to the North Pole and to the ends of the earth, Erik.” 

Not for the first time after receiving a present, tears streamed down Meg’s face, and she wiped them away. 

“How did you know it was my birthday?” She whispers, turning to him, and he plays with the buttons of his shirt, looping them through the loops. 

“I’ve given you presents before, Meg, though I’m certain you didn’t know they were from me. And I know that it can’t replace the copy you father got you, and you hadn’t said anything about your birthday today, so I wanted to —“

“Oh, Erik!” She gasps, wiping another tear away before throwing herself onto his upper body, away from his ribs. She tucked her face against his warm neck, smelling of soap and sweat and something so distinctly Erik, and arms wove around her back softly, almost too afraid to hold her back completely. 

“I’ve never had someone like you in my life, Meg Giry,” he admits as a whisper, and her grip tightens around him. “I hardly know what to do.” There was a frustrated huff of breath from him, and then, finally, he held her back, just as tight. “I don’t deserve you, my friend.” 

“I’ve never had anyone in my life like you either, Erik,” she replies, breathing in his scent before speaking. “And you deserve me plenty. Everyone deserves companionship and kindness. You are no different from everyone else in the human race.” 

“My friend,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the back of her shoulder, as if he still couldn’t believe it. She felt his neck crane down, felt his chin and bloated lip against her forehead, felt the harsh line of his mask. 

“Best friend,” she whispers, and his breath catches, and suddenly, he was clutching her tightly, and the blonde felt tears, unalike to her, dripping onto her scalp. 

“I thought I was the ugliest thing, the worst of the worst, lower than human kind itself, my own sort of monster.” His voice broke, and she pressed her forehead against his jaw. “But you, oh, Meg Giry, you make me feel like a man. You make me feel real.” 

“You already are,” she says, pulling away, thumb brushing against a strip of skin beneath his mask. “You were already a completely whole person, Erik. You weren’t some half-thing living. You were whole, you were complete, you were alive. And you’re still those things.” The dancer gives him a watery grin, tears filling her own eyes. “But I get what you mean. You make me so happy, too.” 

He didn’t feel embarrassed when he began to cry. He felt safe around her, safe to express what he felt, safe to be himself. It was not only new to feel vulnerable around someone, but an entirely different one, too, to feel comfortable doing so. He was loath to show tears in front of anyone. 

But with Meg, he felt heard. 

Even if she didn’t always understand him, she tried. Oh, she tried. 

She pulls away, then, to gently brush the tears on his bare side away. A tear fled down her own cheek, but she seemed entirely unbothered by it. 

With shaky hands, he cupped her cheeks, fingers trembling as they made contact. His fingers spanned much of her skull, and she sighed, leaning against his right hand. 

He wondered, then, if she felt the same way he did, but that was surely impossible. 

“Mon lutin,” he murmurs, thumb tracing down the bridge of her nose, and his middle finger tracing her left ear. “Belle âme.” She leaned into each ministration, and it took his breath away. 

He wanted to kiss her, just then. But Madame Giry’s words threatened his confidence, and the idea that Meg may not feel the same, and the guilt of betraying the woman who had saved him. 

“Happy nineteenth birthday.” 

Meg was suddenly sure of herself when she swooped down, much too quick to have second thoughts, and pressed her lips against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUH DUM TISSSSS


	23. chapter twenty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all!!!! so just to start out thank you SO MUCH for all of your comments! they inspired and motivated me so much that i legit hammered out another chapter. so thank you so much!!! you seriously have no idea how lucky i feel right now, to have such amazing readers. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy! :)

It had been a long journey, from New York City to Paris, perhaps even longer than the first. She missed her daughter dearly, and was devastated to have missed her birthday. 

She hoped that Meg would have told Erik of her birthday, or anyone, really, but she suspected that Erik would have already known. Despite her discomfort with their growing relationship, she hoped Meg spent it happily. 

And if it was with Erik, so be it. As long as he kept his hands to himself. 

She couldn’t believe she’d done it, left Meg alone in New York City, and she almost felt as if she were choosing between her husband and her daughter. With a sinking feeling, she knew Meg would always come first, but how terrifying it was to not have seen the one you love for so long, and then hear of a fatal illness. Though Meg comprehended little of Madame Giry’s internal struggles in this, she was proud that she’d had the compassion to do so. 

It eased her clenched heart to know that Meg wasn’t one to fall for Erik, and though she loved Erik dearly, like a son, she didn’t want her daughter to live in the shadows. And besides all that, she always seemed to know when the dancer had her eyes on a boy, and she always wondered if she’d end up with one of the boys in the orchestra pit. The blonde had nursed a crush on the youngest violinist, a boy of twenty-two years, who sat first chair in the second row. A very high achievement for someone of his age. Though it was ultimately her choice, she thought the boy and Meg would have been rather cute together. What was his name, Alexander? 

It was murky, in Paris, despite the setting sun. It was eerily quiet, as if everyone had disappeared from the city. She had an inkling that something wasn’t right, but she continued on, heart beating frantically at the thought of seeing her husband, even if he was sick and hurt. 

A strange feeling began to encompass her, very similar to the night the opera house burnt down, and the woman had begun to suspect that something awful was about to occur. Nonetheless, her sick husband was only a few paces away, and she was lucky to have gotten the shortest travel possible. And she wanted to write to Meg as soon as possible to update her on her father’s condition. She could only imagine how the young girl was feeling. 

As she rounded the corner to her apartment, digging into her pocket for the key, a hand wrapped around her from the back, and pressed a sweet-smelling cloth to her nose and mouth. 

Her last waking moments were spent fighting, wanting to sprint into the apartment, to find her husband. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It only took a few moments for Erik’s mind to fall blank, for him to forget everything but the blonde leaning over top of him, palms against his cheeks, lips pressed against his. 

Her kiss was clumsy, and he didn’t have the mental functioning to analyze anything much beyond that Meg was kissing him, that her mouth was pressed against his and he wished he could pull her closer . . . 

It was awkward, firstly because neither were very experienced, and secondly, Meg found the mask frustrating, as it hid the right corner of his mouth. She captured his upper lip between both of hers, and then his hands were on her, they were everywhere, clutching her hair and cheeks and shoulders and wrists . . . 

His lips trembled against the barely there pressure of hers, Meg’s mouth shy but sweet, and his fingers curled into her flaxen strands. He pulled her closer, pressed his mouth firmer against hers, and a choked sob left him as her lips pulled gently, nervously, against his. She slowly pulled away, and with a startled sound he barely recognized as his, chased his lips with hers, but met adoring fingers instead, stroking his lips, as if it were some sort of intimate kiss. 

He saw tears in her eyes, as if she couldn’t believe what had just happened, and an unspeakable joy was painted vividly across her features. He saw it in the upturn and swollenness of her lips, the crimson red of her nose, the blushing pink of her cheeks, the release of tension in her jaw and shoulders. 

She looked happy. 

She looked the happiest he thought he’d seen her be, since their meeting. 

There were still strains of light passing through the window, landing on both. Sunlight stained Meg’s hair, and fell gently around her shoulders, ticking the masked man’s neck. And as she pulled away, he thought she looked like some sort of angel, and he, the same. She’d never been close enough to notice, but his eyelashes were dark and long, much longer than her own, and there were freckles dotting the highest points of his face, so faint and barely there. She wanted to kiss each and every one. 

Her heart was frantic, and when he made no sound of refusal, she leaned to kiss him again. But this time, he went rigid, and shoved her frighteningly fast away from him. 

“We can’t . . . We can’t . . . “ he gasps, and he turns his head to find her, crumpled on the floor on her knees, staring up at him. She looked heartbroken, and the pain in her eyes was so tangible that he yearned to comfort her. 

“What do you mean?” Her voice was a small thing, and her lower lip quivered, but she bit down to stop it from doing so. Her palms were at her sides, open and empty, and her shoulders slumped to match. “I . . . I thought . . . “ her voice broke, and she closed her eyes against a sudden onslaught of tears. “Y-you can touch me . . . You couldn’t before, and all the things y-you were say-saying, I . . .” 

It was quiet for a moment, and then, he replied with what was the most heartbreaking of all. 

“Your mother . . . She knows, she knew, and she said we can’t, Meg. And I . . . I don’t think I know how to love someone.” 

The blonde froze, and she cradles her hands against her stomach, and wipes a tear away in a frustrated manner. 

“So it’s . . . It’s not Christine?” She questions, and he nearly laughs, or sobs. He isn’t really sure. 

“No, Meg,” he breathes. “It’s been you, always you, since the ship. You’ve worked your way so deeply into me that I sometimes forget to breathe.” 

“I don’t understand,” she says, her gaze now meeting his, colder and teary and red-ringed.  
“Is this a joke, then? My mother certainly knows nothing! She would have said something to me.” 

‘Unless she doesn’t trust you’ a voice whispers to her, and that stupid, infuriating jealousy returned, when her mother had praised Erik’s creative spirit, and made it nearly impossible for her to practice her own crafts. 

“Are you in love with my mother or something?” She questions hoarsely, and she grits her teeth together as he laughs this time. 

“No! Lord no, Meg.” His humor dies out, like the flaming wisps of a candle blown to only smoke, and he seems to cave in on himself. “We can’t do this. Your mother will kill me - truly, honestly kill me - and I’ll do more harm to you than anything. Not one person can I think of that I haven’t done some sort of catastrophic damage to their life. Even you, Meg.” 

Her heart and brain warred against her, and her frustration toward Erik grew. So what if her mother forbade it? Meg was her own person, her own woman, and would make her own choices. She fully knew Erik’s sins and flaws, and wanted him even still. 

Well, perhaps not fully, but she suspected she knew his worst. 

But this choice truly came down to choosing her mother or Erik, and Erik, with her, and the only mother he’s truly known. 

But she understood his fear, in a way. Her mother had become a mother to him, his own stable relationship in his life, and it seemed the longest, spanning over a decade. Though he would treat her unkindly, and disobey her, this would be the one action her mother could never forgive. 

He feared he’d be alone again. 

“Why do you feel like you’d be bad for me?” She murmurs, and he avoids her gaze, lifting it toward the window. 

“Memories are pesky things, aren’t they? The ones you want to keep close, so full of vibrancy and color, fade away. But the ones full of hate and anger and pain, they stick around, even when you wish they’d simply disappear.” He huffs a breath, and she watches his jaw tick anxiously. “I may be a living, breathing man, but the ghosts that haunt me nearly are, too. I’m not a gentle man, and I’m certainly not a kind one.”

“Do you care for me, Erik?” She murmurs, and he squeezes his eyes shut, as if in pain. 

“Don’t ask me that,” he begs. 

“Because I care for you,” she whispers, drawing closer, and he faces away, clenching his fists. 

“Meg, please, I can’t bear it -“ 

“We don’t have to tell her,” she promises. “I know how much she means to you - we’ll keep it a secret.” 

A horrible guilt filled Meg, and the cross burned against her collarbone. This was wrong, perhaps in more ways than was right, but she couldn’t go on this way anymore. Not after kissing him, feeling his hands on her body, feeling the edge of the mask dig into her check, feeling the strength of his jaw against her own. 

And knowing what he felt for her was as real as her own feelings toward him. 

“No, Meg. I can see that very thought shredding you,” he murmurs, his hand lifting toward her cheek, and then lowering. She didn’t understand how he could be so clinical about this, almost as if he’s used to remaining alone and yearning. 

“This is so hard,” she cries. “Why must my mother keep us apart?” 

“It would never work between us, Meg. We’d only be hurt in the end, because of who I am,” he says miserably, and she rolls her eyes and clenches her fingers tightly. 

“It’s not as if it’s entirely her fault, either! You foolish, stupid man! I don’t care about any of that! I like you, more than I should, and you continue to allow yourself to be victimized by your circumstances. I’m sorry others have made you feel unlovable, or that you can’t love others, but you are, and you can! I saw it then, and I see it now.” She huffs, fingernails digging into her palms. “You terrorized Christine, and yet she kissed you, you oaf!”

Meg breathes deeply as Erik goes quiet, and she fiercely tries to grasp at calmness. 

“I’m sorry for everything you’ve been through, Erik, and you’ve gone through so many lifetimes of pain that I can’t even begin to imagine. But you’ve been given a second chance. I want you to live, Erik, live as you’ve always wanted. Even if it’s not at my side, I just want you to be happy.” He remained silent, so she continued. “And right now, you’re too stuck behind what your idea of society is. Who cares what others think? Who cares what they say about you? Despite your past, you’re a better man, in your heart, than most of the ones I’ve met. So take this second chance, Erik, and if someone holds you back, I’ll break their nose.” Her gaze was boring into him, and she was talking quickly, and he looked nearly about to fall apart, but still, she didn’t stop. 

“And you, Erik, despite the world being cruel to you, despite your abuse and trauma and every horrid, horrid thing done to you, you still believe in love,” she said, softer now. “Do you understand how incredible that is? How incredible you are? How little of anything good you’ve been shown, and yet you still believe in love’s existence. You’re not some villain, not some monster. You have dreams, and you were mocked for them. And your mind! Your mind, Erik, is brilliant. You are brilliant! And it devastates me that you’ve been held back and beaten because of your body.” 

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Erik was rendered speechless, by an out-of-practice, short, feisty ballerina, nonetheless. 

She gulps, then, and in a hushed tone, “We could be living on borrowed time, Erik. Any day now could be our last.” 

“I’ve told you to stop talking that way, Meg Giry-“ 

“And I wouldn’t regret a single moment I’ve spent with you, in secret or in public or whatever this is. And I don’t want to regret anything else,” she continues passionately. 

“Meg!” He shouts, and she stops, startled, though he reaches for her hands, and holds them tightly. She yanks back, however, and he lets her. “I know, Meg, I know.” 

“So you acknowledge my feelings for you?” She asks. 

“Yes.”

“And you acknowledge your feelings for me?” 

A beat. And then, “Yes.” 

“And you acknowledge that you could be the Creature, from Frankenstein, for all I’d care, and I’d still care for you then?” 

A sharp inhale through the nose. “Yes. But you had to have known that, Meg. And even if you didn’t, even if you’ve just learned I care for you now, then we still can’t be together.” 

Her heart drops to her feet, and settles somewhere beneath the floorboards. 

“I love you,” she whispers, so quietly she doesn’t think he can hear it. But she’s been trying, for nearly a month she’s been trying. In every action, every thought, every word to him she’s tried expressing what she was too frightened to say. 

This certainly isn’t how she imagined everything. 

His head snapped to hers, and there was something hard in his features, almost cold, and it scared her. 

Unbelieving, she amended. That’s what she saw. 

“Say it again.” 

“I love you,” she says now, clearly, eyes raising to his, and she knew what he was doing before his fingers reached, ripping the mask off of his face. 

“And to the other side? To the monstrous side?” He pointed at the wicked side of his face, strewn with tears and inflammation and damage, and she felt nothing but pain and affection. 

“I love you!” She cries, and for the first time, she saw both sides of his face rise with hope and crumple with pain. 

“Oh, I’ve found you,” he gasps, emotion filling his voice. “I’ve found you at last.” 

“You’ve had me!” She yells, shaking now. “You’ve had me, Erik.” She was crying in earnest now, and she worried she’d never stop. How wonderful and awful these few months had been, but this certainly was the most heartbreaking. “You were my first kiss. The first man who’s taken my heart as you have!” 

And despite her anger, despite her frustration, when he held an arm out to her, it was with no hesitation that she knelt in front of him, back pressing against the couch, and leaned against the limb. It wrapped around her, despite her seat on the floor, around the front of her, and held her tightly. She lay her head against his upper arm, bare and pressed against her, and buried her tears into the tattoos there. He supported her, even when she collapsed. 

Nothing was ever normal between them. 

And though she was heartbroken, she smiled at the humor of it. And despite everything, she was delighted to know her feelings weren’t only one way, and she’d forever have those words, written in pink, only a few feet away. 

“We’ll find a way . . . We’ll find a way . . .” She murmurs against his skin, and he holds her tighter. 

He hadn’t said this, but fear of their stalker targeting him filled his head, and he worried for Meg’s safety if they were truly together. It was likely he knew of the fake marriage, but surely, he couldn’t know of his growing feelings for the blonde. 

And only when she’d fallen asleep did Erik let himself break. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You needn’t walk me home,” she blushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m perfectly capable of doing so myself.” 

“Now, mademoiselle, though that may be true, I’d rather like to, anyway,” Hammerstein shrugs, and she secretly grins beneath the shadows of night. 

They walked a while longer, and the man began to notice something weighing upon her, as if stones were stacked atop her shoulders. The red-head began to slouch all the more, as if something terrible was hidden inside of her.

He hadn’t any patience if it indeed contributed to what had just occurred. 

“Felicity,” he says, accusingly, and she stiffens, coming to a stop a few paces ahead of him. “Though I’ve no right to, I am going to ask why you seem guilty.” 

“It’s not what you think,” she murmurs, wringing her fingers together. “I . . . It was necessary, but I did everything in my power to protect Meg. Truly.” 

He arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms and drawing closer. “And why would you need to protect her?” 

A shaky breath leaves her, and she glances around them both, nearly shaking. “Is there somewhere we can talk? If I’m to admit my sins, at least let it be over a glass of brandy.” 

He shrugs, though his eyes were hard. “So be it, then. I’ve a few bottles in my apartment - we’ll head back there. But if you’ve hurt our friends, Felicity, you’ll no longer be welcome there.”

She nods, tears filling her eyes, and wraps the coat tighter about her. “Just remember, there’s more to this than even I understand. This is something much larger than us, and I’m afraid Meg and Erik are in the middle of it all.”

“By accident?”

And then, the most terrifying answer of all, “No. This was all intended, since the very beginning.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He found her the next morning on the roof, gazing up at the rising sun, an apple in hand. Her gaze didn’t shift to his, but she stiffened as he sat beside her. 

Despite this, she nudged her knee with his, and traced a hole in his pant leg. Meg deliberately let her hair fall in front of her face as tears filled her eyes. 

She was nearly sick of crying over this man. 

An arm was wrapped around his ribs, and if not for the growing tension between them, she would have yelled at him for moving from the couch. The stairs were surely painful, and her heart warmed to know he’d done so anyway, to find her. 

To find her, even in the North Pole, or at the very ends of the earth. 

His voice was soft and heartbroken as he whispered, “Meg?” At the slight tremor of her shoulders, he brushed her hair to the side, tucking it behind her ear. 

“Don’t do that,” she says, jerking away, and he lets his hand fall against his thigh. 

“Are you angry with me?” His words were sudden, and she shivered at them. 

“I don’t think so,” she replies, shrugging. “I don’t know.” 

It was silent between them, and while she stared at the stars, as if they were galaxies of life, somewhere in the stardust, he stared at his own, at the girl who loved him. 

The girl who loved him. 

Oh, she loved him! What was he doing? 

“I don’t want us to be a secret,” he abruptly states, and she turns to him, eyes wide. “I don’t want to lie to your mother. I don’t want you to be ashamed of me. And I don’t want you to choose between your mother or me. And I certainly don’t think I can do the same.” He breathes deeply, and watches as her hand freezes on his knee. “I don’t think I can live without you, Meg Giry.” 

“So what are you saying?” She questions, and it hurts to see the blonde attempting to shove the hope down. 

“I want to become a better man, for you, for your mother, and for me. I . . . I want to become that gentle, kind man you deserve, Meg. The man I’ve always so desperately wanted to be.” She reaches for his hand as his jaw tightens. “I’m frightened.” 

“Me too,” she admits, and he looks up at her, almost confused. 

“It’s true,” she continues. “I’ve never felt so deeply connected to another. And I haven’t a clue about much of this, really, besides what I’ve read from books.” A sad smile crosses her lips. “You’re more experienced than even I am, Erik.” 

She reaches up, then, finding the wretched side bare, and gently cups it. He stiffens, and she feels his breathing quicken, but his hand wrapped tightly around her wrist and held her there. 

“You’re so brave, Erik, for telling me those things,” she murmurs, and he closed his eyes tightly. 

He couldn’t believe this was real. That she was real. How many times had he envisioned being loved like this? Touched like this? If this were a dream, she’d be every color he could paint, every note he could compose. 

“What if your mother . . .” He could barely say it, becoming choked up, and she caressed his other cheek. 

“She won’t abandon you,” Meg promises, staring up at him, despite his eyes being closed. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore. The Girys stick together, alright? And any friends we find along the way are stuck with us, too.” 

A gasping exhale leaves him, and then, “Okay.” 

“Together,” she murmurs, lifting her hand and placing it against his heart. 

And for the first time in perhaps forever, Erik felt his heart swell and soften. And though he was anxious, something so close to a giggle left him, as his lips spread into a giddy smile. “Together.” The word was stained with some sort of lovely dizziness, and he felt like sweeping the girl into his arms and kissing her senseless. 

She giggles with him, and he wipes a tear away from her cheek. “You’re beautiful,” she exclaims, nose scrunching adorably and running a thumb across his smile. Leaning up and forward, she places a chaste kiss against his deformity, at the outer corner of his eye, where drooping skin met wretched, eternal twists. 

His face didn’t seem to matter much anymore, to Erik, when he was with Meg. He felt free, like he was with Madame Giry, but free to touch and taste and yearn like never before. 

Someone loved him. And suddenly, he knew he was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also please don't kill me i have an exam on monday but after that i'm free game
> 
> y'all didn't think i'd give you a kiss AND a confession for free did you? XD KIDDING KIDDING you guys will be getting some free kisses :)
> 
> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> next chapter is already in the works!


	24. chapter twenty-four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! i hope you're having a wonderful day or evening! here's the next update :). i hope you enjoy!

“Here, I have a few slices left,” the blonde says, pushing the plate of bread and cheese over to him. “I haven’t seen you eat a single thing in the past two days.” 

“I’m fine,” he says, continuing to scribble frantically in the notebook. His right hand was poised over the table, as if faux chords were being played beneath them. It seemed something simple, a phrase of quarter notes soon paired with chords of simple major thirds, but nothing much more than that. 

She didn’t want to interrupt his flow of thought, but nonetheless, it worried her how his eyes appeared bloodshot, and navy circles drew beneath his eyes, darker than her own. 

“Maybe some tea? It will take a moment for the stove to warm, but Maman left the rest of that English stuff behind, that Papa brought us last Christmas,” she says, almost sadly, as if reliving that Christmas in her mind. “He’s going to live - I just know it. And I think he’ll like you.” 

That severed the line between his mind and work, but he found frustration was the farthest thing from his thoughts. “I hardly think your father should like his daughter entering a courtship with the Phantom.” 

She places her hand on top of his, and laces her fingers through his. “Perhaps there’s a few things we should leave in mystery, but he’ll adore you. You’ve both traveled around the world, speak many different languages, learn so many new things that I can only wish to someday understand.” 

“Is he the one that taught you to read?” He questions, closing the cover of the notebook and twisting toward her. The motion places a significant amount of pressure on his cracked ribs, so he slung his leg over the bench to fully face her. 

Erik saw the blonde melt at this, giving her his full attention, and she grabbed both of his hands in response, mirroring his position, her knees on either side of the bench. 

“That’s quite unlady-like,” he grins, lacing his fingers back, because he can do that now, can hold her hand, as tightly as he wants, can touch and feel her fingers. 

“My mother taught me to never listen to any man that says a woman can’t do something,” she replies, lifting her chin proudly. “And to answer your question, yes, my father taught me to read Plato and St. Augustine, but I always preferred Mary Shelley and Emily Dickinson. Though he is not quite as progressive as my mother, he believes every person should have equal opportunity to learn.” 

“I quite agree, Meg. Anyone should have the right to opportunities, regardless of physical characteristics,” he acknowledges, and she smiles, resting a hand against his heart. Erik’s free hand chases hers, tracing the fingers pressed against his chest, though his shirt was buttoned now, and sleeves now adorned his arms. “And I rather like Mary Shelley and Emily Dickinson, as well. Though I think I like you the most.” 

She blushes deeply, and Meg scoots closer so their knees touch. His hand closes around her wrist, to hold her there, and the other trembles as it reaches forward to brush hair from her eyes. Her eyes close as Erik makes contact, and with a breath, he draws his fingertips over every contour, every bit of skin on her face, and admires the artistry of what he felt. As an artist, he couldn’t dream of painting something as perfect as her. To him, she was art itself. 

His thumb skims across her lower lip, and her mouth parts, and he feels warm breath against his fingers. Erik cups her jaw gently before drawing her closer to him, forcing her to lean forward as their legs blocked Meg’s path to him. She stands, then, and leans a bent knee on top of the bench, now looming over him, and he pulls her down then, connecting their lips. 

The blonde’s fingers caressed him, lacing into his curls as they kissed, and he pulled her all the closer, bold with affection, hands planted on her hips. Erik felt softer curves there, softer than on the ship, and he shivered as her lips pulled against his experimentally. 

And when she pulled away, cheeks reddened and panting, he pressed his face to the underside of her jaw, planting kisses there as Meg caught her breath, fingers tightening around his scalp. He found a sensitive spot behind her ear, causing her to giggle, and as he wrapped his arms around her, heart thumping wildly with the fact that he was allowed to kiss this woman, the door opened. 

“Oh!” Fleur says, eyes wide as the couple turns with a fright, still wrapped in an embrace, Erik’s head level with her collarbone and the blonde’s hands against his shoulders now. “I’ll . . . come back later?” 

“That would be best,” Erik replies at the same time Meg says, “No, it’s alright!” He glares up at her, and she grins, patting his upper back before pulling away from his arms. She then heard a strangled moan from behind her, and turned to see him facing away from Fleur, hands covering his deformity and his shoulders hunched over. 

Fleur, almost confused, watches the strange reaction from him, and then Meg launches into a flurry, darting around the tenement before finding his mask. She watches as the blonde kneels in front of him, prying his hands away, and helping him unbend the wires as his fingers follow hers. Erik’s hands then bunched into the cloth at his thighs as he whispers, “I forgot . . . I forgot I didn’t have it on.” The blonde shushes him, standing to straighten the mask before walking over to the older woman. 

Fleur realized she hadn’t even noticed. 

“Thank you,” Erik whispers to Meg though his arm wraps around the front of his ribs, and he lowly moans. The dancer places a comforting hand on his shoulder before looking up at Fleur, addressing her. 

Despite the tremor in his fingers from being unmasked in front of someone that wasn’t a Giry, his heart still felt light, and Erik closed his eyes, savoring the dizzying numbness of his lips and mind. Secretly, he reached up to press his fingers against his lips, and they felt swollen. 

What did people who were together call themselves? Does he call her his lover? His partner? His sweetheart? His beloved? She’d once called him her best friend, so perhaps it was wise to start there. 

He felt calmer now, almost steadier, and grounded himself in that, and was able to breathe evenly. 

“I must be quite honest,” Fleur begins. “I’ve seen you both embrace, but nothing beyond that between the both of you. I was beginning to think you both were feigning a marriage!” She exclaims, and Meg is quick to laugh, though it was forced and faked. 

“Well, I’m sure you know that isn’t true, now,” Meg smiles widely, though pink dots the apples of her cheeks. 

“After such a kiss, and the way that man looks at you, I’d be a fool to assume anything else,” Fleur states, almost matter-of-factly. 

The blonde blushes deeper, and she sees Erik whirl around in a fright, eyes wide and face beat-red. He seemed embarrassed, and wouldn’t meet Meg’s eyes, but she gave him a shy, affectionate smile. How many clues of his feelings had she missed? 

“Well, regardless, I brought breakfast,” she says, and Meg’s eyes light up, her emotions going straight to her stomach. It was with no hesitation that she turned, climbing back onto the bench beside Erik, and prepared to eat the equivalent to the Empire State Building outside their window. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You’ve still failed to mention exactly where we were going, Felicity.”

“For the last time, Mister H, just called me Fleck. It’s fine!” The red-head grabs his forearm, glancing around themselves before pulling him into an alley. 

“If I am to call you Fleck, than you must call me Oscar-”

“Shhh! I’m going to tell you a secret, and you must promise to never tell this to another living soul. Well, you can tell our friends, but not right now. I think this would kill them on the spot, so perhaps not before they’ve at least gotten adequate sleep.” Her voice was hushed, and she’d pushed Hammerstein against the brick wall. “And definitely not Meg. She’s strong-willed, but I can tell you that she has not been sleeping, nor eating well,” the red-head says matter-of-factly. “And I will not contribute to the crippling change, nor will I tell Erik and force another person behind her back.”

“Agreed, but if it has anything to do with this man’s identity, or if you are in any way tied to this . . . this monster, I will not hesitate to report you and anyone else to the authorities. Understood?” He instructs, voice low with warning, and she nods, though an uncomfortable grin spread across her mouth. Something lopsided and unsure. 

His eyes flick down to her hands that were pinning him against the wall, despite him being taller than her, and her eyes widen before pulling away, an apologetic look on her face. 

“In all honesty . . . although I have nothing to do with this, I can’t help but feel I’ve contributed in some way. I’ve been so frightened to seek help, so afraid that fingers would be pointed my way when I’ve done nothing directly wrong . . . but if I have done so, indirectly, then I hope breaching the boss’s trust will make up for it.”

“And is this your boss’s place? Is he the culprit?” He whispers as she tugs him into the small brick door in the alleyway, darked in the shadows of night, the gentle, moonlit haze just falling short of whatever lie just beyond their sight of vision, and soon, the place beneath his fingertips as he found a doorknob. 

“No. I don’t think Mr. T has much to do with this, other than sending me to this man’s place. He was a new client, one that privately paid, and gave the strangest address . . . ‘the place between where the east sun hits the city, intersecting where the Empire bites the brick’. And then, of course, next to Zillow’s Pizza Place, which is just up the street,” she explains. 

“If not for the serial killer hunt, I’d say this is a mighty fine place to live,” he comments, and Fleck rolls her eyes, though a humored smile crosses her face. 

“You’d fit right in! And I’m sure the neighbors would love you, pounding that piano all night long and driving them practically insane,” she snorts, and he chuckles, a small smile gracing his face. 

“It would be lonely, but that is an isolating fate for any artist. I suppose I may as well get used to it.”

“Ah, what a positive contribution. Anyway, shall we?” She props the door open with her hip, and he walks inside, eyes skirting around the small place. 

It was black as pitch before Fleck lit a candle in complete darkness, shrugging when Hammerstein looked over at her in confusion. “I’ve been told I have a gift of observation,” she reasons, and he shrugs in off, following her around the room. 

“So, what exactly are we looking for? Clues?” He questions, and he watches as she makes her way toward the back of the small apartment, as if something called her back there. 

“What is it?” The musician questions, and he watches as she lifts a folder, the only thing not dusty on the entire desk, smooshed underneath a stack of books. None so significant, only seeing the most well-known and popular classic, ‘Frankenstein’, ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’, and ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’. 

“So our killer is a reader . . . how very interesting! Oh, this one is one of my favorites,” he says, reaching toward the smallest book, an auburn, orangey one on top, but she slaps his hand away. 

“This isn’t a time to read about monsters! Although, I can see what drew you in. Hammerstein? Frankenstein? Perhaps you are some ungodly creature,” she says, uncharacteristically flustered, and he punches back with, “And perhaps you are the bride, who only lived a few mere minutes.”

“Birds of a feather, then.” She faces away, purposefully tilting her head away from the light of the candle, and he grins, despite their shared, sardonic humor. 

“Glad you agree,” he finishes, but before he can speak again, she nearly drops the candle, and he barely has enough time to steady it with his own hands before she dashes off. 

“Fleck . . . Fleck, stop!” He yells at her, but she doesn’t turn until they reach the theatre, and they rush inside, the woman closing the door tightly behind him. 

“What . . . was all that for?” He pants, out of breath, and she, somehow, breathes perfectly normal. 

“I . . . I have the folder,” she announces, though the ginger looks over her shoulder, as if expecting to see someone there. 

“What’s wrong?” He says, running fingers through his blonde strands,” and she gives a stuttering breath, clutching the folder to her chest. 

“There was a man, standing right behind you, in the shadows, the entire time.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Erik?” Meg questions, and he looks up from his work to gaze up at her. 

“Yes?” 

“Do you remember when you said you would teach me? To sing?” She asks, and he nods, feeling warmer in his clothes. 

“And you said you’d teach me how to speak English?” 

“Those two things will rather go hand-in-hand,” he agrees, and she grins. 

“It’s been nearly seven months since you promised me those two things, Erik. Can’t we start? I’m so very anxious to learn!” Meg gushes, and the corner of his mouth ticks upward, following the gleam in her eye. 

“I rather think you do your best singing in the evenings, so we will wait until then,” Erik replies, and she nods, lacing her fingers in front of her in excitement. 

“And English? Where will we start?” 

“I’ve rather heard the beginning is a good place to start,” he chuckles, flipping to an empty page in his notebook. “Let’s begin with vowels. English is different from those in French, as it is more opened, more relaxed. We’ll start with the letter ‘A’. There’s a hard A, and a soft A.” He demonstrated both, and she followed, struggling with the hard A. 

“Look at my lips and the shape of my mouth. Do you see where my tongue is?” He does the same, this time with her eyes glued to his mouth, and when she produced a similar sound, he reached forward to cup her jaw, the tips of her pointer fingers pressing against the corners of her mouth. 

“You’re very close, my dear. Try it again,” and she did so, nearly trembling against his hold, and he couldn’t help but swoop forward and steal whatever she was about to say into his own mouth. A delightful giggle spills forth from her lips, pressed against his own, fingers against the sides of his knees to avoid touching his ribs. 

Kissing was strange and wonderful to the blonde, but she thanked Christine for hiding their horrid romance novels they poured over so well. Though she worried she’d do something wrong, it seemed her and Erik were learning together. Although the novels had all described kissing to an obscene level, the similarities between the words and the one she was locked in now were startling. She shivered, and sucked in a gasp against him. 

His hands shook, though he didn’t seem as nervous, and the pressure of his lips parts hers, and he groans, fingers curling into her flaxen strands. She missed the cold press of his ring, especially against her scalp, and she wondered what it would feel like against her cheeks. 

Meg rather thought she liked the English lessons. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Finally,” Erik murmurs, draping the blanket over her sleeping figure, breathing deeply on the couch, jaw slack and lips parted. Leaning over her, he draws the curtains closed, bathing the room in darkness, though opens the kitchen window to stream light directly onto their small dining room table. 

She’d been nearly about to drop before he finally coaxed her into laying down on the couch. The girl had been wandering around the apartment all day, finding things to do and furniture to clean. It was a nervous tic, something derived from the horror she’d faced, yet so unlike the woman he’d come to know. He was the clean one, the organized freak, and she was the messy one, throwing clothes and things about, leaving dishes scattered and books messed everywhere. He’d never been one for clutter, but he didn’t mind picking up after her, especially if it offered her a distraction. 

He watched as she curled further into the blanket, as if cold, and at the spotting of the first flurries of snow outside their window, he peeled the cape off from the bottom of the clean laundry basket, and draped that over the blonde as well, which she seemed to immensely appreciate. His heart skipped as she tangled her fingers unconsciously in the fabric, burying her nose there, and he could smell the fruity orange scent of her soap wafting up to his nose. 

He saw two figures outside of their door, and he loomed closer, standing next to Meg, his heart quickening at the thought of trouble close at hand. However, as he squinted, he saw the familiar green of Hammerstein’s hat, and released a breath of relief. 

Erik quickly rushed outside, glancing at the sleeping girl one last time before exiting, and softly closing the door behind him. 

“Keep your voices down, please. She hasn’t . . . Well, as I’m sure you could have guessed, she hasn’t gotten a minute of sleep, and she finally has fallen asleep.” The deformed man shivered in the cold, but feigned complete comfort in the freezing temperature. 

“It can’t have been too terrible . . . One eventually has to pass out from exhaustion,” Hammerstein comments, which Fleck soon delivers an elbow to the side for. 

“I completely believe Meg could run off of coffee and sheer force of will and spite for days if it came down to it,” Erik says. “Her sleep problems truly aren’t surprising.” A warm feeling fills Fleck at the sight of a pink blush crossing Erik’s cheek and nose before at the mere thought of Meg before adjusting his mask. “Anyway, what brings you here?” 

The story quickly spilled from Fleck’s lips, how she had found this strange place some time ago, and how she’d long wondered if it was a part of the case. Erik remained silent, despite his expression becoming bony and hard, and then, when she offered the folder to him, he snatched it, immediately opening it. 

Inside lay two small pictures, one of what appeared to be Meg’s father, and on the right, two side profiles of Erik, one boasting his mask and the other his bare cheek. Both persons were circled in red, and a nervous shiver ran through him. 

Would they both be fatally targeted? He and Meg’s father? 

Had her father already been targeted? With this realization, his stomach dropped. If anything happened to Meg’s father, especially if it was related to Jack . . . Well, he worried about Meg’s overall health immensely. And he’d made a promise to protect her. 

“Where did you find all of this?” His voice was low and quiet, and he seemed eerily calm, though Fleck thought she saw a hint of malice and something utterly terrifying behind his eyes. 

Not for the first time, she wondered exactly why this man was evading the police, and how fighting in a war left everything untouched but half of his face. She’d never seen beyond the mask, but she wondered how a bloated lip would constitute such an injury by explosives. 

“I’d once walked a woman to a client’s meeting place, as it was a strange location, and I was worried for her. Once we’d arrived, all was empty, except for these pictures, hanging by mere strings on the wall,” Fleck explains, lowering her gaze from his piercing ones. 

“They were in your office before, Hammerstein,” Erik says calmly, eyes flirting up to the man’s, only a mere few inches shorter than himself. “Why have they suddenly moved, undetected?” 

“If you are moving to accuse either of us, I’m sorry to say we’ve had nothing to do in this case,” Fleck says, arms crossed. “Though my sex is no lesser than yours, I could not have orchestrated this, much less Mister H. There’s no motive here, we only bring you information. And it isn’t so obscure as to believe that there are more copies, Monsieur! We’ve long known multiple people are involved. Who’s to say someone hadn’t planted those pictures in Mister H’s office, to make him seem guilty? It’s a logical jump.” 

“Fair enough,” Erik replies, flipping the papers over, only to find a picture of Madame Giry, with red X’s over her eyes, and her left hand cut off from the picture. His heart skips as he finds forged certificates, each labeled ‘Marguerite Giry’, each boasting of being British-born, one stating the graduation from a Swiss-finishing school, another stating her acceptance into the Royal Ballet. His jaw nearly shook with unbridled rage when he saw one divorcing a ‘Nicholas Y’.

He knew about the fake papers. Erik had torn each one shreds, except for their marriage document, folding it neatly into a small square and hiding it between the ruined pages of Meg’s first copy of ‘Frankenstein’. Their citizenship was already assumed, but in order to financially support Meg, he’d need proof of their union.

Oh, but that had been ruined, hadn’t it? 

He’d been so scattered it hadn’t even dawned on him. 

He quickly entered into the tenement, lowering himself by Meg’s bag, and lifting the old, wrecked copy into his hands. A pamphlet fell out, but he ignored it, flipping to the back of the book, where he’d stuck the document to. 

The entire page was gone. 

“Erik?” Her voice was tired and husky from sleep, but anger and fear still stirred in him. “Erik, what’s wrong . . .” A pause, and then, with more strength, “Why are you going through my things?” 

He drops the book back into the bag and throws the folder against the wall sharply, sending photographs and certificates around the room, and bunches his fists by his side. Hammerstein and Fleck burst in, frightening Meg, who recoils from the group and backs harshly against the wall, smacking her head. 

As she cries out, they all turn to her, and she groans, rubbing her head. Before she can ask why everyone has suddenly burst in, she spots the photographs on the ground, and her eyes widen.

“Meg,” Fleck says, reaching forward to grab her friend. “Don’t look, please-“

“I am not some China doll who will break at every fall!” She exclaims, breaking away and walking toward the mess, bending down by Erik’s feet to gather the pictures. He says nothing, does nothing, only watches as her shoulders slump. 

She does not cry. Even as she sorted through the documents, her face remained hidden from everyone. 

Extending a hand out to her, the masked man helps Meg to her feet, whose face was drawn low and solemn and almost expressionless. 

“You failed to mention the part where I am married to a Chagny,” she murmurs, revealing one of the forged documents to be a marriage one, and she saw Erik’s eye twitch. “Yet to my knowledge, all the Chagny men are dead or married, and far away in Italy. Christine wrote me a letter, and the entire family is there. She’d have said so if any one of them were traveling, especially alone.” 

He snatched the paper from her, tearing it in half, and crumpling both pieces in his hands. “It’s those pathidious Chagneys! Oh, I’ll kill those drunken fools! Have they come to take revenge? Have they come to take away what I have in return for what I’ve taken from them, though it’s already been returned?”

“Do not speak of Christine as something to be possessed, Erik,” Meg says carefully, and he shakes his head, throwing the balled-up papers to the ground. 

“That’s not what I’m referring to, Meg,” he grunts, and the blonde has the thought to back away, but instead, grabs his hands with hers, and presses her lips to them. 

“Do not become so lost in your rage that you forget who you are, darling,” she whispers to him, soft enough for only his ears. She doesn’t look up at his face, but feels the rigidness leave him until his fingers are unfurled and soft in her hands. 

“It’s not them, Erik. If Christine or Raoul ever caught wind of this type of conspiracy, they would put an end to it. Though they may be angry, they would never, never hurt you, Erik, nor me. They are good people, and his sisters are some of the sweetest people I know.” She glances up at him, cupping his cheek, tone just as gentle as her touch. “And we, too, are good people, which includes you. The Phantom is composed of anger -- Erik is not.” 

He felt uncomfortable being touched like this in front of others, preferring this type of thing to be in privacy, but he relished it all the same, and felt the lightness of anger fleeing him. He still felt frustrated, still felt frightened, but he no longer felt any destructive urge. 

He managed a nod, and she gave him a small grin, thumb brushing against his jaw before lowering back down to her side, and turning to face the odd couple across from them, who suddenly seemed enthralled with the color and texture of the ceiling. 

“Where did you find these things?” Meg asks, accepting Erik’s robe that he gathered for her, needing a moment to breathe in the hallway. He came back a few moments later as Fleck was explaining, and handed the garment to her. 

“Then we go straight to your boss. Surely he must have more information on this client,” Meg decides, slipping her feet into boots. 

“You’re in pajamas,” Hammerstein points out dumbly, and Erik glares at him as Meg slips a heavier coat on. 

“And this man has threatened my very life. I shall wear whatever I please. Besides, my curiosity shall keep me warm,” Meg says, unbothered. “Are your bandages fine, Erik?”

“Changed them this morning, dear,” he replies, slipping his own coat on. 

“Then I see nothing wrong. Now, shall we continue?” 

She winds her arm with Fleck’s, exiting the tenement, and Erik moves to follow her before Hammerstein stops him, an arm holding his elbow. 

“Erik, are you certain you want her gaining further knowledge of this? Hasn’t she been through enough?”

Silence, and then, “Though I appreciate your concern, Hammerstein, Meg can handle herself.” 

The blonde, only a few paces ahead, grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't mess with meg or erik will mess you up lol
> 
> i hope you enjoyed! expect a few more updates over the christmas season! 
> 
> and if you have any guesses for who the killer is throughout the story, please let me know! i love hearing your guesses :). 
> 
> have a very merry christmas everyone! and if you don't celebrate, have a very well-deserved winter break! <3


	25. chapter twenty-five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> erik growing and maturing as a person and learning how to effectively communicate? WE LOVE TO SEE IT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all! it's fairly vague, but i just wanted give a slight tw for some blood and gore in this chapter. it's a little more gross than anything else before in this fic. but if it's any consolation, i have a very weak stomach when it comes to these types of things and it didn't bother me writing it, but i just wanted to let you know so it didn't hit you unexpectedly! a lot of the disgusting stuff is also more so implied than described :). serial killers are just wack you know what i mean 
> 
> this update is a little longer than usual, so i hope you enjoy!

During their walk, Fleck had moved to walk beside Hammerstein as Erik hurried forward to stand beside Meg, a hand against her upper back. 

“Are you alright?” He questions, gazing down at her as she walked with purpose, staring straight ahead. “You didn’t-”

“What? I didn’t cry?” She states sardonically, and he shakes his head. 

“No, I meant you hardly got fifteen minutes of sleep, Meg, are you sure you should be-”

“I’m fine, Erik,” but even as she said that, tears filled her eyes, borne from frustration and exhaustion, her stomach rumbling. The man’s eyes widen, bringing them to a stop at the sight. 

“Meg-” His leather-clad hands find her cheeks, tucking golden strands behind her ears as small, white flakes scattered across the crown of her head. “Are you sure you aren’t ill?”

“No,” she replies. “I want answers.”

“If you feel faint, or sick, do you promise you’ll rest? Or at least sit down?” His worrying brought a small smile to her face, and she nodded against his hands. 

“Pinky promise,” she agrees, holding said finger out, and he reciprocated, though his face was still completely serious. 

His arm winds around her shoulders, tucking the girl against his side, and she presses her fingers to curl gently around his shirt, wary of his ribs. His other arm wraps around the front of his abdomen, though his face shows no acknowledgement of pain. 

They walk the rest of the way in silence, Meg staring at the ground in front of them, fiddling with the top button of her coat. She desperately wanted to turn her head into Erik’s shoulder and fall back asleep, but instead, she trudged on. She’d feel better, she knew, after knowing what Fleck’s boss had to stay. 

Meg shivers from the thought of any sort of confrontation - what if her boss knew exactly where to find Jack? Erik must have mistaken her shaking for a reaction to the cold, for he drew her closer, flush up against him now, and flipped the collar of her coat up to rest against the chilled skin of her neck. 

“Careful of your ribs, dear,” Meg says, shoving away slightly, but he pulls her back, his bare cheek now pinkened from the cold. “Erik!” She squeals, temple colliding with his arm, and he grins. 

“I don’t even feel a thing.”

“Liar,” she grins, feeling a little lighter now. They both turn the corner, following Hammerstein and Fleck, though it was becoming darker, and Meg felt her shoes becoming damper. 

They enter directly into the brothel, and she feels Erik fist the clothing against her back, keeping the blonde pinned to him. Eyes were on them, and drew to both Meg and Fleck, but they both ducked their heads, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of men’s prying stares and hurried to the backrooms. The dancer could still feel the peeling gazes on her figure, and dug her fingers tighter into Erik’s waistband. 

His arm was still tight around the front of his ribs, and he seemed winded, but Meg wasn’t sure how to help him, and was almost positive he wouldn’t accept any. She wraps an arm around his waist now, steadying herself so she was balanced on the ground, and he gave her a tight smile. She doesn’t say anything, only moves her line of vision in front of them. 

Mr. Thompson was, as Sorelli would have put it, a ‘crusty, old man’. He sat behind a mahogany desk as Fleck approached, and Meg must have froze with fright and surprise, as she felt Erik’s hand, now bare, twine comfortingly with her own. It was ridiculous, how much bigger his hand was compared to hers, but she squeezed back tightly in response. 

She was still reeling at the fact that this man ran a brothel - what sort of dancers would he have here? she didn’t see any studios or barres or mirrors - and that Erik may very well find out the truth soon. But they needed this money, for his park, for her career. 

Meg couldn’t hear a single word Fleck was saying, only that Mr. Thompson’s eyes had settled on her, and then flicked up to Erik’s, who sent a biting glare back, before returning back to the ginger, a smirk on his face. 

“As you well know, Felicity, all client information is confidential.” His voice was grating, as if he’d smoked his entire life. According to the yellow of his teeth, Meg safely made that assumption. “However, I’m never above a bribe.” 

Meg seemed crestfallen when Erik quietly translated in her ear, though she should have expected such a response. At her reaction, Hammerstein steps forward, hands in his pockets. “I have money, Sir. It truly can’t take that much for a simple name that probably isn’t even real.” 

“I can be bought,” he replies, switching over into French now, and his gaze levels upon Meg. “Though I think just a few hours with her on the floor will make more than you would be willing to offer.” 

Both Erik and Hammerstein move now, the masked man shoving the blonde behind him and both men blocking Mr. Thompson’s view of her. “Think again,” Erik growls. 

“Have you forgotten our deal?” There was a glimmer in his eye, and though they couldn’t see each other, Meg shivered, and wrapped her arms around herself. She still didn’t know what she’d signed up for, but if this was the place he ran, she wondered just what exactly an exotic dancer meant. 

“What do you mean, ‘deal’?” Erik questions, hands fisting at his sides. “She’s never even met you before!”

“Ah, well I did just propose one, didn’t I?” He says, and Meg breathes a silent sigh of relief, though she wonders why he’s playing with her. 

“The answer is no,” Erik states firmly, hands now buried in his dress pockets. “And don’t ever ask again, because it will never be considered for a single second.” 

Meg gulps, turning around now, afraid that she wouldn’t be able to hide the guilty and anxious look probably present on her face. 

What had she gotten herself into? And why had Fleck orchestrated it in the first place? Should she tell Erik? He’d be angry, but she had a feeling he’d do most anything to cancel her contract, especially if he knew Fleck had been the one to set up the meeting, and Meg had been pressured. 

But still, she should have walked away, regardless of the pay. And that was her own fault. She knew most of his anger wouldn’t be directed at her, but the breaching of a contract could only mean trouble. 

What left was there to do?

She heard a whimper, then, and it tore her away from her thoughts, and she rose up to her toes to see over Erik’s shoulder. 

“You dare come here, asking for a favor without anything in return?” 

“I’m sorry, Sir, I thought -“

“You thought what? That your little initiation the other day was enough to warrant anything? You owe me, girl.” Flinching, Fleck closes her eyes tightly, arms wrapping almost protectively around herself. 

“Please, Sir, it’s only just a name-“

And then there was a smack, delivered from the back of Mr. Thompson’s hand that sent Fleck to the floor, holding her cheek as she gasped, tears streaming down her face. 

Despite the biting betrayal of her friend, Meg lunges forward, set upon punching the man square in the jaw, but Erik caught her arm, stopping her as Hammerstein careened forward, grabbing the man by his collar. He held his fist up by his ear, ready to deliver a punch, but the threatened man did no more than smile. 

“I’m quite fine with a new contract I have, so perhaps I’ll give you what little he gave me.” Hammerstein’s fist lowered at this. 

“And?”

“All he gave me was the letter ‘J’, and requested a short blonde. He mentioned he was from London, but had spent much time in Paris.” His eyes flicked to Meg, and she felt bile rise in the back of her throat. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Fleck whispers, and Hammerstein gently helps her up as Erik slips the leather glove back on, saying nothing. His hand returns to her upper back, quickly exiting the brothel. 

“I hate this place,” Meg gasps as soon as they exit, feeling as if she can at least breathe. 

“That man deserves to rot in a prison,” Erik grits out, agreeing with her as they stand in the cold. “All men who run places like these do. Especially with that ‘initiation’ talk.”

Fleck and Hammerstein came out a moment later, the red head’s cheek now blossoming scarlet, which was sure to bruise later. 

There was a heated look shared between Meg and Fleck, something angry, something betrayed, something biting and sickening, but then, utter relief. In the next moment, Fleck had collapsed against Meg, weeping, and the blonde held her tightly as they sunk down into the snow. 

“I’m so sorry, Meg, I’ll help you, I’ll do anything I can-”

“We’ll talk about it later, Fleck,” she murmurs, shivering as a cold, pinching wetness coated her bare knees. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I to say, Meg? There’s no way to escape family. We can’t escape our families, Meg, especially our fathers. This is what I must do to put myself through school and stay in good graces. I have no choice, Meg, none at all. I’d be cast out onto the streets, with little sympathy from anyone.” She cried openly now, shaking in the blonde’s arms. 

“I’m so sorry, Fleck. I’m so sorry you’ve had to walk this alone, but we’ll help you in any way we can,” Meg replies, holding her tighter, which only seems to make her weep harder. But she felt the tension and the bitterness and the pain leave her limbs, and the dancer knew it was relief she felt more than anything. 

She’d seen the same in Erik, when she’d accepted him, when she’d loved him, despite everything he’d done. She was still upset - and rightfully so - that Fleck had now involved her in a dangerous situation, and though she could have refused, Meg rather thought there was more to the story. 

And for now, it would stay between them both. 

Swearing now, Fleck stands with Meg, glancing down at their knees. “It’s frigid out here,” she laughs, wiping tears and snot from her face. Meg smiles, pulling a pair of mittens from her coat. She ignores the light-headed feeling and the swaying of her legs, feeling her legs begin to give out. 

“It is a bit chilly, I agree with you there.” Fleck gratefully accepts the gloves, and Hammerstein puts his coat around her, which she buries into. Erik, however, has his attention on Meg, who he catches with one arm before she falls into a heap of hunger and exhaustion. 

“I’m fine,” she says as he pulls her up, wincing at the pressure on his ribs. She looked paler than before, the circles under her eyes more pronounced, and her lips were chapped. She wasn’t able to stand on her own, crumpling back over when standing became too much of an effort. 

“You are most certainly not!” Fleck exclaims, running over to help her stand. “I could hear your stomach growl from over here.”

“That’s not true,” Meg laughs, though her voice was breathy and choked now. “It kind of hurts to talk.”

“You look like a corpse, Meg,” Erik says, arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “You need sleep, and food. There’s a chunk of bread left, and some of your father’s Christmas tea.” 

Fleck raises an eyebrow, completely unbelieving. “Is that all you have?”

Erik nods, hoisting the blonde up again and wrapping a tight arm around her abdomen. “It’s not enough, but it’s all we have left.”

“You haven’t eaten, either, for as long as I haven’t,” she coughs, eyes fluttering shut against the absence of adrenaline now. 

“True, but I’m not the one who can’t even stand right now.” She grunts at this, laying her head against his chest and allowing her to fully close her eyes. 

“We’ll bring some food over. Bread and tea is certainly not enough to nourish her,” Fleck says, finding her own coat beneath Hammerstein’s. “I always carry cash around in the city, just in case anything were to happen. There’s a delicious pizza place around here, and I know the owner’s daughter. They’d be happy to make you guys a meal.”

“Oh, Fleck, honestly, you don’t need to,” Meg argues, words slurring together. Erik, however, nods, and begins to slip his own gloves onto Meg’s frigid fingers, wondering why on earth she’d give them to Fleck if she didn’t have another pair for herself. 

“Nope! Too late. Already on the way!” She exclaims, and Hammerstein has little time to bid them goodbye before he’s taking off after Fleck, yelling, “That’s my coat!”

Meg giggles, though sighs after that, the effort hurting her head. Erik adjusts her against him, though not very well, his injured ribs aching terribly. 

“I can’t pick you up, mon lutin. We must work together on this one.” He kept his voice low, and nudged the top of her head with his masked nose. Nuzzling against his coat, she balances herself on both feet, though leans against him at the same time he does to her. 

“I still need to come up with a name for you,” she mumbles, and he chuckles. “Mon grand?”

“I am truly not that tall, my dear. You are simply just short,” he replies, and Meg snorts, though her eyes were still closed. 

“Am not. My height is average, but you are rudely tall.” She thinks for a moment. “Mon Romeó?”

His laugh reeked with self-deprecation this time. “I see the humor in that, my dear, but Rosaline has not sworn off all men this time, and I am rather infatuated with the lovely Juliet as it is. Next one.”

“Don’t make me blush! I have a headache,” she groans and they draw nearer to the tenement, Meg shivering against him. 

“So perhaps I shouldn’t tell you that despite you knocking on death’s door, I still find you incredibly endearing and lovely?” He teases. “Or that I find you utterly beautiful? Or that I think you are brilliant? Or that-” He cuts off, seemingly in shock. “Oh my, is your hair turning red?”

“Oh, stop it!” She giggles, though her heart felt near bursting. “Or I shall call you mon mignon.”

“A cute little one?” He scrunches his nose, letting Meg go as they reach the bottom of the stairs. “Perhaps you should just call me by my name.”

“No! I will find you something special, something only I call you,” Meg says, clutching the rails as she walks up the stairs, feeling the slightest bit of energy of being so close to sleep. “Such a handsome ghost that walks abroad.”

He rolls his eyes, following closely up the stairs, making sure she doesn’t trip while holding his ribs tightly. “Oh please, I think that’s the worst one yet.”

“Well, have you got any better ideas?” She huffs, struggling now, but still, she persists. 

“None that I care to admit to. Now, I shall open the door since you can barely keep your eyes open,” he suggests, hobbling in front of her to open the front door. “Would you like me to wake you when Fleck and Hammerstein come?”

She nods, rushing inside, only to find Fleur with Robin in her arms, asleep on the couch, where she must have accidentally fallen asleep. George was in the bedroom, asleep on the bed. 

And Meg was already removing her coat, planning to sleep in the very spot she was in right now. 

Leaning over against the wall, he slides down with great effort, grating his teeth against the pain, before he finally reached the ground. Holding a hand toward her, he instructs, “Come here,” and Meg lifts her head, and crawls next to him. 

“Are you offering to be my pillow?” She questions, grinning, and he pats his hand against his thigh. The blonde wraps her blanket tighter around her, relishing in its warmth against her frozen skin. 

Gently cupping her cheek, he brings their lips together, sweetly, chastely, the way he’s wanted to kiss and be kissed for so long now, and he feels her smile beneath the light pressure before he presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. He thinks this is the first goodnight kiss he’s ever shared. 

“I should think so,” he replies as she lowers her upper body, resting her head against his thigh. His arm stayed plastered across his ribs, but his other hand darted out, unable to resist the urge of brushing honey away from her face. 

He hummed softly, a petite allegro from her favorite ballet while combing his fingers through her hair, and she fell asleep quickly. At least, he thought so, until she whispers, “Mon ciel étoilé.” 

My starry sky. 

He smiles, now, an exquisite type of pain passing through his chest, her words the balm to his very soul. 

Her breathing deepened, after that, and he pulled the blanket up more, to cover her shoulders. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meg, now with sleep and food in her system, had held his hand the entire walk to Hammerstein’s theater, moving all the closer to him as the temperature began to drop drastically. On the ship, he seemed to be uncomfortable with the amount of touching she’d done with Erik, which she’d immediately amended (and thinking back, that was rather wrong of her . . . she shouldn’t be as touchy with others without making sure they’re comfortable first). Erik had seemed to become more comfortable with her touch as their relationship developed, but even still, she was glad to know that he continued to accept her touch, and even initiated it. 

The way he’d kissed her before rose in her memory, and a warm blush spreads across her cheeks. She hoped he’d kiss her again, perhaps when they got to the theater. 

They approached soon after that, the sun already beginning to set, and the lobby in a flurry of people. Women danced around the couple in bright, flouncing costumes and colors painted vibrantly across their faces. Meg looked around in awe as Erik led her toward the hallway, dodging the dancers and chorus members. 

Once they were within his office, quiet and still, Erik eases himself onto the piano bench, wary of his ribs. 

“I actually don’t have any work tonight - the first dress rehearsal of the new show is happening, so we can focus on your lesson,” he explains, and Meg bounces upwards, anticipation building behind her eyes. 

“Oh!” She exclaims, and he could barely hide his own grin as she came to stand in his line of sight by the piano. He looked like a shadow, dressed completely in black, curling ink spilling across his scalp and forehead, his cheek rosy from the cold, and his lips parted slightly. And when his eyes flicked up to hers, roving across her features, she saw his eyes crinkle from joy as she moved closer. 

“We’ll begin with your lower register,” he begins, poising his fingers over the keys when the door suddenly burst open, frightening Meg to turn. 

“The first violin didn’t show up and we can’t find him - we need you to stand in.” Hammerstein was frantic, eyes blown wide with stress and fingers trembling. 

Erik’s eyes flick to Meg, and then back to the composer in front of him. “Are the other players completely incapable of sight-reading?” 

“It’s a difficult score . . . and we need instrumental precision for the performer’s tuning! And balance between parts, nonetheless!” 

“Fair enough,” Erik shrugs, standing with an arm wrapped around his front. “I’m sorry, Meg. We can do a lesson after, if you’re still up for it.” 

“It’s alright,” she reassures, though the excitement from earlier fades away. “I understand - it’s your job.”

The visible corner of his mouth quirks up the littlest bit, and he flings the fedora off of his head before touching her wrist affectionately, placing his coat around her shoulders, and then leaving close behind Hammerstein. 

The dancer found herself alone once more, and with the fear of what had happened last time she’d been alone in this place, she quickly ran out into the darkened lobby. It was a mess of glitter and powder, and she pulled Erik’s coat closer around her, shivering as the early winter wind blew in from the outside. It’d be much colder soon, and she prayed neither one would catch a cold this year. 

The door was slightly ajar, and she heard the mixing of voices warming up and the tunings of the orchestra echoing from the pit. Pulling her arms through the much too-long arms of Erik’s coat, she finds a seat in the back, and immediately captures him in her line of sight in the front row. He sat at the end, holding a Stradivarius close to him, and gently tuned the instrument. She could pick out his sound, even from the back, vibrating with a silken resonance that echoed through her body. 

The conductor then stepped into the pit, and she saw curious gazes on Erik’s mask before they launched into the overture. He was perfect, and though Meg didn’t know the score, it all aligned with the other sections. Watching this man in his element took her breath away, and she suddenly wished she were closer. But despite the distance, she watched as his fingers moved up and down the neck of the instrument, bow sliding across the strings wickedly and seductively. It was almost athletic, in a way, and she was drawn to the intensity of his fingers and the concentration in his gaze. His eyes rarely flicked up to the conductor, but he seemed to be so connected to the orchestra itself that keeping time was no challenge. And what was beyond her, was Erik hadn’t even composed this piece, and he somehow played with genius musicality and precision. 

The man sitting next to Erik seemed to realize all of this, too, but Meg felt no pity, for he’d been the one most obvious with his staring and judgement. Once the overture drew to a close, there was a sort of pride and joy in Erik’s composure, and she was glad his unmasked side was facing the audience so she could discern each intoxicating expression. 

She watched him a little longer, even once the performers came out, and what was strange to her was the lack of glitter, but perhaps that was due to them coming later. They all wore attire fit for the backstage presence at the Garnier, and she rather liked the idea of a change in clothing, especially on stage. Her attention switched from Erik playing to the performers on stage, and her heart clenched at the sight. 

This was the emptiness inside of her since their disappearance in Paris. It was performing, and it was missing from her like a limb. She watched the actors and actresses as they floated across the stage, singing and dancing and acting and kissing and it was too much . . . Tears welled in her eyes as she quickly stood, exiting the auditorium. Mismatched, worried eyes followed her, but she didn’t notice. 

It was unnerving, standing in the lobby again, the sun having set and darkness eclipsing the building. She shivered, stepping across to the hallway where Erik’s practice room was, but she instead found herself going down the opposite hallway, close to where she’d found the piano before. 

With a breath of excitement, she found a dance studio opposite it. She found it unlocked and quickly stole inside, surveying the dark room as she closed the door behind her. Electricity was installed, and she flicked the switch and watched as it slowly illuminated the room. 

Carefully, she hung Erik’s coat against a hook, slipped her shoes off, and pulled her hair back with an elastic around her wrist. She knelt on the ground, rolling and pulling her stockings off, and was almost surprised to see her feet held no blisters or sores. The length of the dress would make dancing difficult, so with great struggle, she unzipped it from the back, sliding it off, and hung it atop his coat. Next, she loosened, the strings of her corset until movement and breathing occurred easier. 

She slid back down to the floor and gently led herself through a series of stretches, and was frustrated when she found some of her flexibility had been lost over time. She waves this off, though. She’d never been the most flexible in the corps, and it had never stopped her before. It was something she’d work on, and though it would take time to come back, she was certain it would. 

The blonde stood at the barre, beginning in first position, and counted a steady rhythm before lowering herself into a grand plié, and cringed as her knees cracked. Her turn-out was salvaged, though it never had been perfect like Sorelli had managed. She tested her extensions next, lifting her leg gracefully into a front attitude, which she found to be strong. Brushing it back through first, she did the same position in the back with some difficulty, a little lower than the front, but still there. Next, she raised it into an arabesque, and she found she could achieve a greater height on a flat foot. 

She moved to the center, wiggling her toes, uncomfortable against the bare floor. Knowing she’d regret it and ultimately be frustrated with herself even further, Meg dives into an allegro combination across the floor. Though it was correct, she could tell it wasn’t clean, and her ankles were beginning to grow pained. She wipes a hand across her eyes, angrily wiping the tears away, and tries the combination over, shakily counting out the rhythm at a slower tempo. It was better, slowed down, but the adagio tempo required more strength, which she’d lost, and she felt like sobbing. 

It would take months of excruciating work to get back to where she’d been before. And even then, she’d fallen behind. 

It was as she was running her hands down her sides, over her more pronounced curves and thighs that she heard a knocking, and she turned to find Erik entering. 

She saw his eyes widen at her severe lack of clothing, and when she went over to grab his coat, he shook his head. 

“You don’t need to change if you’re more comfortable this way,” he offers, but after a quick look back in the mirror, she grabs his coat, letting the dress fall to the ground. 

“I can’t imagine that the run-through is over,” she says, and he shakes his head, closing the door behind him. 

“We’re having an intermission. The understudy - well, the lead now - hasn’t practiced any of the costume changes, so she’s being prepped for those now,” he explains. “It will be longer tonight.” He falls silent as the redness of her eyes, and cocks an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?” 

“I can’t dance,” she says, crossing her arms and looking down. “I’ve lost all of it.” 

The laugh that burst from him was startling, and she looked up at him, both confused and maybe a little hurt. “Are you making fun of me?” 

“Only a little,” he says, still chuckling. “Meg, you’ve been dancing your entire life. I’ve watched you, before, and your movement bled with passion. You aren’t going to lose that over time.” 

“But I lost flexibility. I lost technique, I lost agility,” she lists off, slamming her eyes closed to ward off tears. “It will take a lot of time to not only return to where I was, but to improve and not fall behind.” 

“Fall behind whom?” He questions, searching her face. “Meg, I’ve already promised you the greatest roles in everything I create. Though I do expect you to practice, you needn’t stress yourself like this - you have plenty of time. And I already told you the dancing here is different than you’re used to. It won’t be as straining and difficult as ballet, especially with your background.”

“I want to deserve your greatest roles though. I don’t want hand-outs. I’ve never been granted them before, and I won’t take them now. If my skills do not match another, then I want you to cast me as you see fit.” 

“The role was made for you, Meg. There is no one else who could play it,” he argues, and she opens her eyes. “A beautiful, young woman, dressed in pink, enters the stage, an intoxicating grin painting her face. Her voice, so unique already, leads the audience through something new, a genre not yet known to the world, perfect for a soprano with a lower timbre, and she enraptures them. And not even a moment after capturing them, she begins to dance - in heels, nonetheless - graceful and elegant. No one else, yet, can do those things, and I know you have the ability to do so. The music, the movement, the aesthetic, it’s all for you, Meg. Only for you.” 

A tear escapes, and she brushes it away, letting the coat fall open. He offers a hand toward her, and she takes it. Though she wasn’t entirely comforted, as she had still lost much of her dance ability, his words and belief in her provided a balm of the open wound she’d just felt. 

“I’m clueless in the world of dance, but let me help in any way I can,” he offers, and though she considered simply telling him ‘no’, she accepts the offer. Meg knew it’d most likely end in tears from her, but there was no one else who could help her. 

He moves to slide down the center of the long mirror, an arm wrapped around his ribs, eyes settling upon her. His coat was much too heavy to dance in, so with a breath, she removes it and places it on the hook. Without glancing toward him, she touches her stomach self-consciously before turning back toward him. 

He was gentle with her, though Meg could tell he was holding back. Despite him not knowing correct ballet technique, he obviously could tell what was clean and what wasn’t, what was rhythmically correct and what wasn’t. He’d hum the song that the allegro was from, and they’d drilled it together until the movements were clean. 

She came to sit in front of him, sweat dripping down her forehead and legs shaking as she did so. “I’m so behind,” she murmurs. 

“Perhaps,” he admits. “But you got the combination clean, after some time, which is what matters. So you did not, in fact, lose your dancing ability.” 

“Thank you,” she says, blue eyes flicking up to his, and he grins. 

“It truly is always a pleasure, my dear,” he promises, and she blushes. “Let’s go find dinner before I head back. There’s still time left,” he explains, glancing down at his watch. 

She cocks an eyebrow, stealing a glance at her reddened face, sweaty hairline and frizzy hair. “I look a mess, though!”

“You look beautiful. Now come, help me up, and we’ll be on our way,” he says. “I heard there’s pizza being served tonight.” 

“What’s that?” She questions, grasping one of his hands and helping him stand, with a pained groan from him. 

“Just as bread fell from the heavens in the Old Testament, this, too, is a gift from God.” Meg slips the dress back over her head, pulling her hair back tighter as he zips the back. Folding the coat and her stockings over his forearm, he offers the blonde his arm, and she takes it immediately. “It’s close to what we had last night.”

“So I trust nothing even remotely healthy?”

“If it was, I surely wouldn’t like it.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“It’s unfair how talented you are,” Meg says, sipping from the cup of tea her and Erik were sharing. “That’s why you’re deformed. God knew you’d be too powerful if both sides were handsome.” 

He takes the cup from her hands after she’s done, and after drinking from it, his face screws up. “No sugar or milk? You’re drinking this plain and then calling me talented?”

“I like it bitter,” she shrugs, popping a blueberry in her mouth. “I drink my coffee black, too.”

“You’re completely mad,” he argues, placing the cup down. “Take your last sip because I’m adding in a spoonful of sugar. This tastes horrid.” 

Picking the cup up, she drinks what’s left of the tea, and lowers it to the table. “Nice to know who took all of my honey a few years back, then.” 

“Vixen,” he grins, finding the cup empty. “And the honey was rather delicious, I must admit.” Standing now, grabbing her plate and the cup, he promises to return with more tea and pizza. 

A brunette whispers, and Meg turns, finding the understudy murmuring in low tones to her friend. She doesn’t pick up much, struggling to translate, but she hears ‘who is’, ‘man’, ‘ugly’, and with a plummeting heart, she hears ‘phantom’. 

Making sure Erik’s head was turned, Meg turns to glare harshly at the two girls, features stony. 

The understudy studies her for a moment, eyes roving over what she could see of Meg’s figure, and then landing on her ringless finger. The blonde’s hand fists before shoving it deeply into her dress pocket, regretting not having thought of that before. 

With unimpressed stares, they turn away, now speaking of something else, but with sideward glances, she hears ‘whore’ slip from the woman’s mouth, and Meg feels anger and hurt and shock rise in her. 

She knew that word, and she suddenly felt like crying.

She’d never been called anything like that before. 

The reminder of the women being targeted rose in her, and she shivers. 

“Are you alright?” He questions, another cup of tea in his hand, a jar of water under his arm, and a plate with two sandwiches and strawberries. 

“Can we go back to your office?” She questions, standing quickly, grabbing the jar of water from him. “I can help you carry these things back.”

His eyebrow arches, but he shrugs. “I’d rather that, anyway.” As they leave, he stops her, looking down at the blonde. “Did they say something to you?” He whispers. “I’m sorry, if it was in relation to me. I can’t imagine not having a ring and being on a strange, masked man’s arm helps.”

“I’m not ashamed to be with you, Erik. You’ve already told me you don’t want me to feel that way, either, and I don’t. But it doesn’t matter what they said . . .” 

“It does if it upsets you,” He argues back, nudging the door open with his hip. Meg follows him in, closing the door behind them both. 

She suddenly didn’t feel like singing, and instead placed herself on the chair she’d claimed as hers in his office, and watched as he took a drink of the now sugary tea. The blonde’s eyes landed on his lips, and she looked away, blushing. 

“I only have a few more minutes,” he announces, glancing down at his watch. “I’d very much like to hear what those women were saying.” 

“I’ll tell you after,” Meg pushes. “Go and get ready for Act Two - I’ll be waiting back here for you,” she smiles, wrapping his coat tighter around her to ward off the cold. She wasn’t pleased with the amount of food left on his plate, but regardless, she was glad he’d at least eaten something. 

“Walk with me,” he says, holding an arm out for her, and she scurries to his side, draping her own arm around his. “You look exhausted, again,” he murmurs to her and they leave the room. 

“I am a bit tired, but I’m fine,” Meg reassures. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until they were both back at the tenement, the curtains drawn and door locked tightly. And even then, the coarse feeling of nightmares brushing her unconscious mind sent a shiver down her spine. 

She’d never had many nightmares, or any that disturbed her like this one did, but it seemed as if recent events had changed that. 

As he left her at the start of the aisle with an affectionate touch of fingers against fingers, Meg felt a sudden fatigue spread across her limbs. It was almost paralyzing, and she rather felt as if she was too tired to even dream. Meg had wanted to stay and watch him perform, but she hoped this wouldn’t be the last time he’d do something like this. 

With one last glance toward him, she leaves the auditorium, rubbing her eyes, and makes her way back to the office, ignoring the spinning performers buzzing around the lobby. 

With a sigh, she enters the office, closing the door behind her, and gathering his coat closer to her. There wasn’t much for sleeping material, but she found as she laid down, the top of the coat was cushioned enough to rest her head upon. 

Yawning, Meg curled into the fetal position, arms in front of her and fingers resting beneath her chin. She closed her eyes, inhaling Erik’s scent, which comforted her greatly as she fell asleep. 

Her dreams were senseless and dizzying, nothing short of strange images with vivid colors and bright lights. Perhaps there was something there, but all she could focus on was the warmth and comfort she felt, curled on the floor in his coat. 

And then a cold hand was brushing her hair back, away from her face, and another palm on her hip. The fingers had the slightest tremor, and she awoke slowly with the sight of Erik, worry in his eyes. 

“Are you alright? Why wasn’t the door locked?” He peppered, turning the girl onto her back and pulling the coat away, looking for signs of harm. 

“. . . What?” Her voice was gravelly from sleep, and she wanted nothing more than to roll back over and close her eyes once more. 

His hands were against her shoulders, nearly pushing her into the floor as he loomed over her. “It happened again.” 

Meg’s eyes widened, and she lifted her hands to cover her eyes, feeling tears well there. It was then that she felt something crinkle in the pocket, and she reached down, and her heart dropped as she removed a letter. 

She sits up with a gasping sob, tearing the envelope open, and Erik positions himself to look over her shoulder, warm breath blowing against the crown of her head. 

“From hell,” Erik reads, the letter written in scribbling English, and her fingers shake as she grasps the letter. 

“What does it say?” She whispers, handing the letter to him, and he skims over the contents of it. 

“Miss Meg Giry,” he begins, and her heart drops to her stomach, both at the letter being addressed to her, and the knowledge of her true last name. Did the murderer know they weren’t truly married? 

“I send you half the kidney I took from one woman. I preserved it for you, and the other piece I fried. It was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife. You can take it out if you only wait a while longer. Signed, catch me while you can Miss Meg Giry and Mister Erik.” 

“He ate it,” she gagged, burying her face into her knees. “He was in here, he wrote a letter, and he ate . . . And there’s another one.” 

It was then that she felt something dark running against her dress and outer legs, and with a horror, she jumped up from the scene, sprinting to the other side of the room. 

“Meg, wait!” He yells for her to stop, but he notices, then, the blood stains, and his attention is drawn back to the coat, and his eyes widen. 

“Don’t say it,” she begs, on her knees now, feeling sick. “Please don’t . . .” 

He crawls to shield her line of vision with his back, but she hears his sharp intake of breath and the dribbling of blood across the floor, and she knows without a doubt what was in the other pocket of the coat. 

Meg, overcome with horror and nausea, leans over the wastebasket in the corner and becomes sick, tears streaming down her face. 

Hands were against her scalp a few moments after that, holding flaxen strands back, and when she was finished, they gently brushed through her hair. “I’m so sorry,” she hears Erik murmur, his voice choked. “I’m so sorry, Meg. If I could take this all upon my own soul to save you this distress, I would.” And then the door is bursting open, and Hammerstein is in the doorway. 

“What’s going —“ and then he saw the couple kneeling on the floor, and blood was smeared on both, and his gaze shifted to the coat, and Meg could only imagine what the sight was like when his face turned gray and ill. 

“Come, quickly!” He says, and Erik shoves the letter into his pocket and picks Meg up by her elbows, wrapping an arm around the blonde’s shoulders and following the brunette man out. 

“I only . . . I only have one dress left . . . They’re all blood-stained now . . .” Meg whimpers, and Erik gently shushes her, tugging her closer. 

Terror was a tugging thing in her heart, cutting and stealing and killing within her. She couldn’t believe someone had came in while she’d been sleeping, and had delivered not only a letter into her pocket, but a bleeding - 

She couldn’t finish the thought without stumbling, feeling nearly ready to pass out, and Erik’s hand slipped down to grasp her waist. 

“In here. There’s a door through the back,” he instructs. “No one will find you here, and the police will stay away from my office.” His French was hurried, and perhaps the best Meg had ever heard him speak. She was thankful, too, that he had chosen French, so she could understand his words as well. 

The blonde shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, her mind blank and numb. She couldn’t help but remember the other time this had occurred, only a few days prior, and a shaky sob left her. 

There was blood on his hands, but she didn’t care as he cupped her cheeks and wiped the stray tears away. 

“He was in there . . . He touched me, after killing someone, and . . .” Meg’s eyes remained tightly closed. “Why is Hammerstein letting us go?” 

“I told him everything. He knows why the police can’t see me,” he whispers, and she nods against his palms. “I know you’re horrified right now, Meg, but we need to leave. Now. Do you think you can walk home?” 

She nods again, and brings a sleeve up to wipe her nose. “Hammerstein is a good man.” 

“Indeed, he is. Now come, before they search the office,” he says, and Meg follows him, though not without the sight of a peacock feather, undisturbed and laying upon the floor. 

Erik’s hand finds hers and leads her through the door, into the chilly, New York City evening. The Christmas present he’d had in mind would have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! at least they made it out of there without running into any legal trouble! 
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed :). see in the next chapter! and i love hearing all your reactions!!!!


	26. chapter twenty-six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pov this is like 8k and you wrote this entire chapter instead of studying for your ACT and practicing for your auditions which are in TWO WEEKS 
> 
> oops
> 
> ANYWAYS
> 
> enter miss blonde baddie and her bad boy have an important discussion, erik stumbles upon something he shouldn't, and meg makes a realization about their stalker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so first of all, i PROMISE fluff in the next chapter. i know these last few chapters have been heavy, so expect some happiness in the next one XD ALREADY IN THE WOKRS 
> 
> also, a very important trigger warning: in this chapter, there's a detailed description of a character experiencing distress due to a mental illness. this will not appear in every chapter, but i will give warnings at the beginning of each chapter in which this character experiences this. if mental illness is triggering for you, i utilize page breaks in my writing (the little stars), and it's not mentioned as heavily after the second one. 
> 
> with that being said, please enjoy!

Once they’d made it inside, Meg quickly made her way to the bathroom, ignoring the strange, sinking feeling she had when she noticed Fleur, George, and Robin were all missing. 

“Are you okay to wash yourself?” Erik’s voice was gentle, and she nods, though her hand reaches out to clutch his own. 

“Will . . . Will you stay in here? Could you turn around?” She whispers, shivering in the dark. She watches him hesitate for a moment before agreeing, and Erik follows her in, closing the door behind them and locking it. 

“I can wash your clothes - get the blood out as best I can,” he offers, turning as Meg begins to pull off her dress, despite him seeing her in much less earlier. 

“Okay,” she agrees shakily, reaching behind her to undo her dress, and then slip it down to her ankles and step back. Next came the corset, which she untied quickly, and then removed her chemise. The stockings were still in Erik’s pocket, back at the theatre, and she rather thought she’d never want them back. She slips the rest of her underthings off and then hands the pile to Erik. She shakes at the sight of both of their crimson-stained hands. 

She scrubs almost ferociously at her skin, then, under the freezing water, attempting to do the same to her skin that Erik was doing with her clothes. Tears ran down her face, mixing with the water droplets from the spout high above her.

“Will I ever grow used to it?” The blonde asks quietly, her skin now redder than before. “All of this death?” She watches as his back straightens, and then a shaking, heaving sigh that slumped his shoulders. 

“Oh, Meg,” he acknowledges gently. “I pray you never do.” She watches as he drops her clothes to his lap, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and pants slightly damp. “And I rather think I have this new murder figured out.” 

Her head snaps to his, and she lowers herself to the ground, afraid of what he’s about to say. “Why do you think that?” 

“What did that woman say to you?” He questions, and her heart plummets when she begins to draw conclusions from his statement. 

“Was it the understudy that died?” She asks, and he nods, and the dancer pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping trembling arms around her knees. 

“You think Jack killed that woman because of what she said to me?” Meg nearly laughs aloud. “I can’t imagine that this man would have any connection to me! I have no scorned lovers, no murderous relatives, no hateful friends . . . I don’t understand why we’re in the middle of this, but I doubt he killed someone over a woman calling me a petty name.” 

“And what did she call you?” 

“Does it even matter?” She questions, moving to wrap her arms beneath her thighs instead. 

“Our Jack is setting his eyes on prostitutes and unfaithful women. In the letter, he revealed he knows we aren’t married - he knows your identity, specifically, and my name,” Erik explains. 

“But do we even know if she was married? Or if she was unfaithful?” Meg questions. “And even if he knows we aren’t married, neither of us are being unfaithful. And besides, we haven’t even-“ she cuts off, blushing, drawing her gaze down to the bathroom tile. “And I can’t say I’m thrilled to be living with a man while unmarried, but this is what’s best, for our situation.”

“So how do we know he’s not connected to you?” She questions, turning the spout off, clearing her throat. “You certainly had to have made powerful enemies in Persia - and I’d imagine in other places, too. Could you have made one in London? This seems too personal to have been by order of someone else.” 

“Because if he were, you’d be . . . You’d have been targeted lethally,” he says carefully, and she shivers, toweling herself off with still-trembling hands. He was right, she realized; This person was somehow connected to her, somehow, but the same question remained - why hadn’t Erik been targeted the same way she had?

But he had been, she realizes with a violent sniff. His ribs had been cracked, chaos had been spiraled around his arrival at the theatre, and he’d been forced to share secrets with Hammerstein. What if Jack had been listening in?

Or what if he was so deeply entangled in the web of their sins that he knew everything already? 

And what of the poison? Hadn’t that come from Jack, too? But if he cared so much, so much to punish Erik for falling in love with her, to kill a woman that had called her that horrible name, why had he punished her, too? And besides, he hadn’t said he’d loved her yet, and though Meg desperately wanted to hear him say it, perhaps it was the only thing protecting him. 

“She called me a . . . A ‘whore’, and though I recognize the motive behind her death if he is somehow punishing others for me, I don’t think that’s why he killed the woman. I think . . . I think he already had his sights on her, and he saw an opportunity when we left the room, and I was sleeping and everyone was backstage . . . “ she suddenly couldn’t breathe, and Erik closed his eyes before turning towards her.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she murmurs, and he nods, grasping her hands in his. 

“You are strong, Meg, stronger than you know. And I have a feeling that if the police don’t figure this out, you will, somehow, you intelligent thing.” She watches as he blindly reaches for her face, fingertips skimming her jaw, and then he cups her cheek. “Are you still frightened about being hurt?” 

She shakes her head no, though her hands curled around his arms to keep him there. “But I’m terribly frightened for you and mother. I still don’t understand why he poisoned me, but . . . But I think he ordered Rick to hurt you, and what if . . . What if he’s going to hurt my father . . .”

“Your mother would kill him with a look on the spot,” he attempts, and though she smiles - and he feels this, running a thumb over the curve of her bottom lip - it makes her feel no better. 

“I’m so worried about Maman . . . I know it takes time for any sort of news or correspondence to travel, but I just want to know if she’s alright.” He leans forward, offering comfort, and she presses her forehead against his own, though the mask was cold against her flushed skin. 

“I’m certain we’ll know soon, Meg. Now, go dry off and put something on so I can hold you properly,” he instructs, and she dabs a bleached towel against her skin before slipping on her nightgown - the only piece of clothing, other than her cape and coat, that was currently undamaged. 

“You can open your eyes now,” Meg alerts, running a comb through her hair as he does so, and though the cold air from her and the sweat from him created a sticky feeling between them, she feels a large hand against her lower back.

She feels him bury his nose into her soaked blonde strands, and the hard line of his mask presses harshly against her scalp, but Meg can’t find herself caring as he slips his hand to splay against her hip, the other resting parallel to her chest and against her shoulder. 

“So the police won’t be coming?” The blonde questions, closing her eyes to savor his touch. It comforted her immensely, and Meg wished she could bury herself in it. 

“I would think not,” Erik answers, pulling back, tucking a wet lock of hair behind her ear and then pulling away. “I couldn’t get all of the blood out. I can purchase a new day dress for you tomorrow while you rest.” 

“And then we go back to the theatre. I saw two pictures on his desk - the ones I’d seen earlier, when you’d hurt your ribs,” she explains, picking her shower bag up and following Erik out the door. “And a peacock feather, Erik. Isn’t that some sort of bad luck in theatre?”

He freezes, then, and Meg runs into his shoulder, hard, and his hand darts out to catch her wrist to steady the dancer. She groans, rubbing her forehead. 

“You don’t . . . You don’t think he’s behind this, do you?” Erik questions, rubbing his hands together. “No, no . . . I don’t think he is. But I think he knows more about something.” 

“Whatever you say,” Meg grumbles, wrapping the robe tighter around her, grateful for the distraction. 

“Sorry, dear,” he apologizes, pressing a chaste kiss to where she’d knocked her forehead. And though it was short, she blushed all the while. “Are you . . . Feeling better? It’s quite okay if you’re not.”

Her heart broke when she wondered how often he’d experienced this that he hadn’t been rendered absolutely useless like she had. 

“I feel better now that we’re at home and I’m clean now,” Meg admits as they enter back into their small tenement through the hallway. “In all honesty, I feel as if the second I shut my eyes, it’s all going to come flooding back in twofold.” 

Her fingers come up to twine with his, and he lets out a shaky breath before closing the door behind him. Once again, Robin and the older couple were gone, which allowed them to speak in a normal voice, though Erik was anxious to make sure Meg was able to sleep for at least a few hours. 

“Are the doors and windows locked?” Meg questions, glancing around the room, and he pulls away to check for himself. 

“You’re safe,” he promises, and if there was a tremor in his voice, none of them mentioned it. Meg laid down upon the couch, spreading a blanket over herself as Erik knelt on the floor beside her, leaning against the couch. 

He coaxed her into sleep with a gentle, low hum, until he watched as her body fell slack, lips parted slightly and warm, even breaths blowing from her mouth. Though Erik was tempted, he refrained from touching her, from pressing a shaky kiss to her forehead, from brushing hair behind her cheek. He instead sat before her, head bowed in something close to defeat.

He wasn’t enough. He, simply just a man, wasn’t enough to protect Meg. He felt desperate, scared even, not even knowing what he was up against. How could he fight a man he’d never even seen that stalked and hunted Meg? How could he fight the fear in her eyes when they turn a corner in the dark streets? How could he fight someone he can’t even see? 

Oh, but he’d been like that once, hadn’t he? Is this how that Chagny boy felt? 

What frightened him more was what this man was capable of. He was some sort of killer Erik had never known the likes of - and he’d known, including himself, many. Never had he met someone who chose his targets so specifically, so connected, so obvious. Never had he met someone who proudly boasted their efforts, who left the most obvious of clues behind, literal trails of admissions, yet his true motives hidden. He seemed uninterested in killing Meg, though Erik wasn’t sure if that was a permanent decision. 

He wondered if he’d even make it out alive. 

And though he no longer craved an escape from the pains of life - not when he had dreams, he had friends, he had Madame Giry, he had Meg now - he’d much rather throw himself in the line of fire than see any harm come to the blonde. 

He’d already begun making plans if anything so horrific should occur. If she should find herself suddenly alone in any capacity, she’d be financially secure. With the marriage certificate, he would be able to sign her as his legal ward, and leave everything he has under her name. He’d already planned on his park being contracted under ‘Giry’. Though it was an assumption, it was easy to guess that her father wouldn’t have much to leave, and could perhaps cost them extra - if he should die. 

And if Erik himself should die, having the doubled protection would ensure Meg and her mother would be safe. He’d teach her how to run the park, how to invest, how to handle finances. 

But all that planning, and he’d have to get another certificate, or scrap it all and start back at square one. 

Or, well, perhaps, maybe someday, they would marry. Erik wondered if there was anyone for him but Meg Giry. 

But that was all he could do. He could only plan for the future. He couldn’t protect her even now, unless he handcuffed her to him, but that surely wasn’t the way to go about this. But there wasn’t anything he could do, because he was completely helpless and if she died it would be his fault and he didn’t want to die, not anymore, and his thoughts were racing so quickly he could barely breathe, barely sit still. 

He stood now, nervous energy forcing him into a quick pace as he thought rapidly, fingers tapping together and against his stomach and thighs and then cracking them repetitively until they ached. He swept his hands through his raven curls, mucking it up, before returning to his anxious tapping. 

“No, no, that’s not right,” he murmurs, tapping his fingers on his right thigh, then his left one. “No, no, no . . .” Again, frantically now, fearing something bad would happen, he returned to the right one, “One, two, three, four,” and then, the left, “One, two, three, four . . .” 

It wasn’t right, wasn’t right, and if he didn’t do right, something terrible was going to happen, and Meg was going to die. His head was spinning, because then her death would be his fault, and his stomach began to ache and he felt dizzy, and he wanted so desperately to rip the thoughts and feelings from his head. Frustration at himself met an unkindling, unbridling fear, one that he hadn’t felt the full extent of for many years now. 

But if he didn’t do this right, Meg would die. He would get it right this time. 

“One, two, three, four,” he murmurs, sitting now, fingers against his thighs. “One, two, three four.”

He sat there for nearly three hours. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Meg didn’t move when she awoke, and instead laid on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She felt numb, felt dirty, and couldn’t get the sensation of invasion off of her skin. She wanted nothing more than to escape this situation, but then, sitting down with Erik and distracting herself with some conversation about the philosophy he so loved to talk about seemed rather appealing, too. 

She flinched when the door opened and closed, and then, something low and tight and fast, “No, no, no, no . . .” And then it opened and closed again, and he seemed to do that three or four times before seemingly satisfied with it and walking to the kitchen, fingers trembling. 

Meg remembered what her mother had said, about any strange behavior from him. She thought it would be like Christine, how she’d have low bouts of time, where she’d be upset and quiet and withdrawn, and then only a few days later be enthusiastic and obnoxious and frighteningly not herself. She knew it was something Christine had always experienced and was further exemplified by her trauma, but sometimes, it would be worse than other times. 

And as she watched Erik, her heart dropped, wishing she’d have asked her mother more questions. 

Though she didn’t know why, she felt sore, and when Erik turned at the soft sound of her feet hitting the ground, she saw that his eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed exhausted. 

“Erik?” She questions, standing and moving toward him, despite the pain in her body. “Are you oka-”

“Yes,” he replies, before she can even finish. “Yes, completely fine.” He cards a hand through his thick, curly mane, and the blonde watches as his fingers tremble. “Meg, would you like to go to the beach?”

“Erik, it’s freezing outside!” She says, stepping closer to him. “But when it’s warmer in the spring, of course.”

“Ah, I forgot,” he says, despite the snowflakes clinging to his clothes and hair. “A cup of tea, perhaps?” 

“Let me help you with your bandages first,” she says, pressing a hand against his heart, feeling the rapid thumping beneath it. “Come, sit on the couch.”

He follows her and sits down, back rigid and straight and his leg bouncing. He removes his jacket and begins to unbutton his shirt, pulling it off of his shoulders as Meg comes around with the bandages, unraveling them. She felt frightened by the way he was acting, scared at what was happening, and didn’t understand his behavior. Was this normal? Had this happened before? His skin was flushed as she knelt in front of him, her hair brushing against the hardness of his chest and wrapping it around his darkly bruised abdomen, pronounced even against his bronzed, darker skin. 

She wasn’t sure if it would work, but when Meg would become so nervous for auditions that she couldn’t breathe, Maman had always led her through a series of questions. “Erik, my love,” she says gently, grabbing his elbows gently from her seat on the floor. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

He nods, and she stands, coming to sit beside him, anchoring his hand to hers. “What do you feel, when I’m holding your hand?”

“What?” He says, anxious eyes leaping to hers, and she brushes her thumb against his. 

“What does my hand feel like? Is it soft? Is it rough? Is it warm? Is it cold? How does it make you feel?” She turns toward him, holding their hands between them, and looks him carefully in the eyes. 

“Warm,” he replies, holding her hand between both of his, fingers skimming them. “Your fingertips are rough - there’s calluses there.”

“Just like yours, although yours are from playing the violin,” she says, keeping her voice low and calming. “My grandparents live on a farm, and during the summer, I would help them. You’d like it there, I think.”

“I can see your veins, blue and dark with your coloring,” he observes, running his fingertips down her wrists now. “You’re very soft, and you smell like that horrid vanilla lotion, and the lavender you dab on in the evenings, and like oranges from your perfume and soap.” He still seemed manic, but she saw a clarity in his gaze and in his speech that wasn’t there before.

“And what do you see? Out the window?”

“Snow,” he says. “It’s Christmas Eve today, isn’t it? Oh, of course, that’s why we had the first dress rehearsal yesterday. They resume the day after Christmas.” She watches as his breath evens out, and then his hands squeezed hers and gaze returned to hers, and though there were tears there, he was back. 

“Oh, Erik, what’s going on?” She says, holding their clasped hands against their heart. 

“I . . . I need Antoinette, and I need Nadir,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s getting bad again.” 

She gulps, and reaches up to cup his bare cheek. “What can I do?” What was getting bad again? And though he didn’t speak of him often, she wondered why he suddenly referred to the Persian man as ‘Nadir’ and not his long-coined ‘Daroga’.

“I don’t know,” he says, and her heart squeezes at the pain in his voice. “But . . . But it’s okay, it’s fine, it . . . it happens, gets bad, every now and then. But, but Antoinette and Nadir, they always help me, and when I came back from Italy, Antoinette helped me, and when she and Nadir were there, after Persia, and took the morphine away,” he rambles, breath quickening and Meg brushes her thumb against his cheek. Her other hand found the other side of his face, slowly taking the mask off, effectively quieting him, watching every expression. 

She drew in close, and firmly said, while cupping his face, “I love you, Erik. And I’m here with you until the very end. Best friends, remember?” 

“You weren’t supposed to know about the morphine,” he gasps, and she shushes him, tucking a curl behind his ear. “Or the alcohol.”

“I love you even still,” she insists, and those words seem to ground him, and he buries himself in them, gazing into the blue of her eyes, clutching at the skirt of her dress. But he can’t tell her any of it, that he can’t clean because if he does and he doesn’t fold his shirts right, she’ll die. She’d think he was crazy. 

She wraps her arms around him as he buries his face against her neck, hiding there, and her fingers comb softly through his hair and the other gently rub his bare back, feeling the tight muscles there beneath the ink. She felt rough skin there, the kind of fine lines only developed from scars, and she holds him all the tighter. 

“I thought . . . I was feeling better, too, so much better . . .”

“You’ve grown so much, Erik - so much. I’m so proud of you,” she whispers to him, holding him tighter, and he thanked whatever stroke of fate had landed him in her loving arms.

She’d write her mother and Nadir the minute she could. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Erik was devastated when the theater closed, and even more so that he’d been asleep when Hammerstein had come around to alert them of changing news. 

“But, Sir,” Meg had whispered, hands shaking. “We . . . We have no salary but this. We can barely afford the tenement and food . . . I am without complaint, and we’re very grateful for Erik’s job opportunity, but what are we to do?” 

“I’m so very sorry, Meg,” he said, honest solemnity in his voice as her shoulders shrugged forward. “I . . . I have dorms, meant for many of the performers, that still have room. I can find you a job, as well, to increase your yearly salary.” 

Meg’s eyes lit up. He’d offered her a job before, hadn’t he? She’d turned him down, wanting to support Erik’s dream, but she was fearing that she was slowly beginning to fall out of practice. “Thank you. When would be the soonest we could move into the dorms?”

“It’s nothing glamorous, perhaps the size of the bedroom,” he says, pointing toward the closed door. “But food is provided, electricity is wired throughout the building, plumbing is indoors, and there are bathrooms inside, as well.” He thinks for a moment, tapping his lap. “Earliest I would say would be next week.”

Rent was due today. 

“I understand,” she murmurs, lacing her hands together and putting them behind her back. Though she missed her mother dearly, she was glad Maman had a warm place to sleep, and wouldn’t be out in the streets. 

“I will do everything I can. I know how it feels, how it is, to worry about where your next meal will come from,” he admits, rubbing his hands together. “I never want my employees to experience that, which is why I have the dorms. I promise I will ready the space as quickly as possible.”

She nods, giving him a tight smile as he takes his leave. She cast a nervous glance towards Erik, who she knew was only feigning sleep, and stepped slowly toward him. 

“Erik?” She whispers, kneeling down beside him, leaning against the couch. His eyes flickered open, and the blonde reached for his hand, twining their fingers together. 

“Did you hear all of it?” She asks quietly, and he nods, shifting his head to the side so he was closer to her. His chest was still bare, especially emphasized with the bleach-white bandages, but she noticed the stubble on his chin, and scratched the pad of her thumb against it. Slowly removing the mask, she casts it aside, and finds the other side of his face completely barren of facial hair, with only the shadow of an eyebrow. 

“We’ll both bathe today, and pack our things. I still have the key to the theater, where we can store all of our valuables, and sleep inside. I don’t think the authorities will be there, but we’ll have to be quiet.” His voice was drawn low and calm, sobered, as compared to earlier. 

“Will . . . Will you be okay?” She questions shakily, and he winces, bringing her hand up to press his lips against her knuckles. 

“We will be fine,” he promises. “Will you help me up? I’ll prepare us a meal, if you go and bathe.” 

“Of course.” She helps pull him up, shivering when she meets his bare skin, and helps him to a standing position. 

“And now, a shirt,” she says, throwing it at his chest. “Can’t have a half naked man wandering around, now can I? What if Maman showed up?” 

His eyes widened, and he quickly threw the piece of clothing over him, buttoning it completely, though leaving the sleeves rolled up. She gave him a warm smile, and he found his innards melting at the sight, crimson roses in her lovely cheeks and dark oceans in her hopeful eyes as she did so. “I’m only teasing, darling. I’ll be back in a mo’.” 

“Darling,” he whispers to the air, to himself, to the lonely, little boy inside of him. What a name! What a thing to call him! Who could have thought that a beautiful, young ballerina would ever think of him in such affection? Light laughter, almost like a giggle, and then, “darling!” 

“Yes?” Meg calls back, poking her head inside. “Is something the matter?”

He was grinning, madly, and he cursed his ribs, for he wanted to pick her up and spin her about, something so energetic and pounding in his chest that he nearly threw caution to the wind. In a few quick steps, he was in front of her, hands cupping her face and pressing his mouth against hers. It took her breath away, and she gasped, fingers grasping his lapels as she rose onto her toes so he wouldn’t be forced to lean over as far. 

Meg pulled away soon after, heaving as she fought to catch her breath, though they still held each other close. “What was that for?”

He grins, now, toothy and wide, and she thought she’d never seen him so handsome. “Because I can.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

They’d eaten across from each other, Erik seemingly in very high spirits - higher than perhaps Meg had ever seen him before - but she didn’t think anything of it. He laughed at every joke she made, smiled nearly the entire time, and his happiness was so intense that when his expression fell slack when he would spoon soup into his mouth, lines would remain etched around his mouth, beneath his eyes, and on the expanse of his forehead. The only worrying thing, however, was the nearly manic energy behind his eyes. 

But no matter! It was exhilarating to see him like this, nearly matching her energy, and though she dearly loved spending time with him, she missed her more feminine friends, back at home, that were just as crazy and obnoxious and childish as she was, sometimes. When Meg was with him, though she felt a very keen connection with and with herself, there were more serious moments, more complex moments, more intense moments that made her feel wiser, older. She felt more independent, despite their dependency on each other, something that ran far deeper than friendship. 

She felt as if she could embrace herself, in ways she perhaps hadn’t been able to before, with her parents and friends. 

“You seem so happy, right now” she said to him, at last, and he delivered a swift kiss to her brow, though she saw something . . . something strange in his eyes, something tired and lost, like she’d seen when he’d been upset, or whatever had happened. 

“Your hair is still wet,” he says, drawing the topic away from himself, and reaching out to comb his fingers through her wet locks. That had been another thing - he was being affectionate, and though he seemed to be comfortable with it now, as if he’d been starved of it for a lifetime, she’d received more touches from him in the past twenty minutes than perhaps their entire relationship, from day one. 

“Well, yes,” she giggles, hands crossing behind her back as she grinned up at him. “My hair doesn’t dry as quickly as yours, though yours is much thicker.”

“I’m also in need of a trim,” he says, brushing swirling locks away from his eyes, which now curled at the bottom of his neck. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Meg says, scrutinizing its dark length. “Perhaps not yet.” 

“Only because you like it long,” he teases, and she blushes, her head and gaze bowing in embarrassment. “Though I think the stubble should stay.”

“It’s itchy!” She exclaims, to which he chuckles. “I’ll get some sort of rash from it, you know.” And to emphasize her point, she rubs the area around the left side of her mouth. 

“Fine - the stubble shall go,” he says, winking at her. “But so does the hair.”

“Deal,” she agrees, gently patting the stubbled cheek before bumping her shoulder playfully with his - well, his arm, really - and gathering the dishes in her hands. She had the sudden thought of him coming up behind her, of long arms wrapping around her waist and kissing her cheek, but when the blonde turned around, he was gone, the last clean towel disappearing with him. 

“Silly man,” Meg grins, though her fingers trail upwards to press against her lips, remembering the feel of his own. “My silly man.” 

The emptier tenement grieved her, knowing she’d be more alone without Fleur and George and Robin, but glad it wasn’t truly out in the streets. It was nerve-wracking, to know she and Erik would be sleeping in the cold, sterile office, completely silent in the pitch-black to avoid the police, and though it went unsaid, Jack was implied as well. Though she was sure Erik had their roles switched in his head, she had a feeling that, if it ever came down to it, she’d be the only one to protect the masked man. 

Though he poisoned her, it was the same as what Erik had been poisoned with, back in Persia. And he’d figured it out rather quickly, which made her wonder if their killer knew exactly what he was doing when picking the poison. 

Fleur had been notified earlier, when Erik hadn’t given the coins to their landlord, that they were moving out. She didn’t know much beyond that, except that she hoped Fleur would arrive home before Erik returned. It was embarrassing, how much he’d seen her cry in these past few months - was it nearly a year? 

She whirled around with a fright, constantly on edge now from their interactions with Jack, that she was filled with a sudden relief when she saw Fleur. 

“Oh, my dear girl, please tell me it isn’t true.” Robin was in her arms, George by her side, and she handed the child to the older man as Meg fled into her arms, the older woman holding her tightly. 

“I wish it weren’t,” the blonde gasped, tears filling her eyes. “But, alas, it is true, I regret to say.”

“Surely you have somewhere to go? Somewhere better?” She asks, rubbing the girl’s back. “Oh, little one, I so wish we had extra funds for you to stay until the theater reopens.”

“It’s okay, Fleur. You can’t tell anyone, as it’s well-known that no one is to enter the theater except for authorities, but we shall stay in my husband’s office. Mr. Hammerstein has graciously offered us a place in his performance dorms, but we won’t be able to move in until next week.”

“But, isn’t that horrible man - oh, what’s his name - Jack there?” Fleur questions, eyebrows shooting up. 

“Surely it would be safer to live on the streets!” George exclaims, arching an eyebrow. “I say go down to the beach, by the sea, and live beneath the pier there, and store your possessions in the office -”

“They will not be living in the snow, George!” Fleur declares. “What a horrible idea! I should kick you out for that.”

“Then you shall have no one to hold Robin while you emote,” he points out, and she sighs. 

“Always right. One day, you’ll be wrong. I love you, husband, but sometimes I doubt your scholarly title and think you to be the dumb one between us both.”

“Love you too,” he simply replies with, coddling the baby and lifting his gaze and Erik comes into the room, shirt unbuttoned and toweling off his hair. He felt quick stares at his scars, his chest and abdomen empty, and he seemed to shrink away from them before Fleur and George quickly looked away. 

He spots the tears in her eyes, though he says nothing as he folds the damp towel, setting it on the table before clearing his throat, and busying himself with packing what little they already had and quickly buttoning his shirt. 

She’d stuffed Mr. Thompson’s pamphlet in her corset, so she hoped it would be safe from his eyes. 

“You’ll visit us, won’t you, Meg?” Fleur asks, and she gives the woman a watery grin, hugging her tightly again. 

“I would surely die if I couldn’t see you again,” Meg whispers, burying her face against the woman’s shoulder. Fleur reminded her so much of her own grandmother, who had passed away a few months prior to them leaving Paris, and every embrace with Fleur comforted the blonde immensely, in a way a grandmother only could. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He was self-aware of the mood swings, but it made them all the worse. It had felt good for a while, when Madame Giry had told him what was wrong, had given him a name, had given him a few, but the relief soon left him when he’d fallen into the dark of them again, now all too aware of how little control he had. His mind was infested with something he didn’t understand, could only experience, could only name. But Madame Giry knew how to calm him, how to care for him, how to make sure he didn’t destroy himself. And Nadir, familiar with it all, walked through everything with him, despite Erik being terrible to him. 

It’s not like he was very kind to him while he was functioning normally, either. He felt so undeserving of everyone, couldn’t understand why these people were so fiercely loving of him, stuck by his side even when he insulted them. He struggled finding anything remotely lovable about himself. He’d wondered that, again, when Christine had left him, that maybe Nadir felt like he was indebted to Erik and Madame Giry felt like she had no other choice. But now that Meg loved him as he feared he never would be, he knew, inherently, that it wasn’t true. It was easy to guess that she was attracted to his skills, to his genius, and craved a friendship with someone who understood Paris and her past. Even when he was preoccupied, he would lose himself in the stars in her eyes and the pretty words on her tongue when she spoke of her ideas, politics, theology and whatever else his intelligent girl was analyzing. She always wanted him to write some of her ideas down, sometimes opening his journal to the last few pages and scribbling notes as to not look at things he may not want her eyes to see, and he promised himself he’d get her the finest stationery once they had the means. 

Once they could actually afford clothes and food. 

Hammerstein’s dorms would provide them with shelter and food - only once a day, though, in the mornings - but he’d packed a basket and clean towels to take with them, so they’d have food for the rest of the day. At least, Meg would. 

They were leaving that evening with extra blankets and a pillow, and a promise from their neighbors that Erik would return every few weeks for his ribs to be checked until they were healed. Meg was asleep on the couch, exhausted from crying while saying goodbye to everyone and from being unable to sleep while it was dark outside. 

He felt terrible, knowing that they’d be sleeping in the same room that, well, everything had happened in, but it was that, or live in the snow. They would leave the theater before the sun would rise, as to avoid eyes, and would return after the sun had set. Everything would be on their person, and Meg had said she’d shove their money bag between her breasts, so if someone stole from them, she would surely notice. She’d put her necklace on and shoved her rosary deep in the pocket of her nightgown, and had cried again when Fleck had come around, giving her a new day dress she’d purchased only hours before. She’d offered to let Meg stay with her, in the brothel, but Erik had been very adamant that he wanted her nowhere near that place, and she wanted to be close to him while she slept, while she was vulnerable. 

The sun began to slip below the horizon, and Erik shoved his notebook into their few bags, laying against the couch, and felt jittery again. He needed out, wanting to avoid looking at anything familiar. Bending down, he gently shook the blonde awake. 

“I’m going to be out for a bit . . . I’ll return soon, perhaps in an hour. Eat something, alright?” 

“Okay bye miss you already be safe. . .” She slurred, eyes slipping closed again and immediately falling back asleep. He grins, thinking her precious, and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, depositing a light kiss against her forehead and brushing the hair away from her closed eyes. For a moment, all was silent in his head as he gazed down at her, serene and asleep, lips gently parted and her chest rising slowly. 

She was so very, very lovely. 

Gradually, his thoughts set him back into a pace, and he threw his coat on, grabbing his fedora, and wrestled himself out the door, quickly stepping down the stairs as he approached the park, centralized in the middle of the expanding city. 

In the dark, he blended in, just another shadow in a never-ending night, tall and black and threatening. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, fidgeting with a small bottle of perfume Meg had asked him to hold onto, afraid it would shatter and spill in her bag. 

He hadn’t much cared for anything fruity, neither the food nor the smell, but once he’d started nursing romantic affections for her, he’d come to rather like the smell of oranges and lavender.

But not vanilla. Never vanilla. 

Secretly, looking about himself, though it was dark and most of the Americans were inside the brightly lit buildings eating together, he spritzed the barest bit against the inside of the mask before righting himself, shoving the perfume back into his pocket. 

And then, the question that had been bouncing around in his mind: did he love Meg, now that he didn’t love Christine? He recognized himself falling for her - and falling hard - and he supposed he did love her, but was he in love with her? 

He shrugged away from the thought, the thought sending an endless pang of anxiety and ages-old fear through him, and he felt the familiar, singular shiver wrack his body. 

And then the letter he’d received a few months back, the one that had nearly sent him spiraling if not for Madame Giry holding him together, that . . . that . . . 

His fingers began to shake, but he clapped them together, lacing them and shoving them against his lower back. 

New York City was beautiful at night, as he’d already known, and he remembered when he was seventeen, traveling here for the first time with nothing but a pocket-full of magic tricks and endless dreams of architecture. 

But that had been nearly eleven years ago, and much had changed since. 

He allowed himself to daydream for a few moments, remembering what Meg had said of her father, how he’d love Erik. He’d never known his father, had only known a cruel mother and a kind one, and wondered what Meg’s father would think of him. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind his face, if he kept the past a secret, or at least for a while. Maybe Meg was right, that he and her father would be great friends. Perhaps even treat him like a son.

A loud sound from the other side of the park erupted, as if something large had clattered to the ground, and Erik jerked his head up, gazing curiously at the muffling of bright lights.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” he murmurs, sprinting over as he approached the tents, recognizing them as circus-themed. 

It was a traveling fair, and he recognized this one perhaps a little too well.

The name ‘P.T. Barnum’ was painted everywhere inside as he peeked around the corner, and he heard the gentle whispering, a light soprano, and saw a small, skinny girl hunched over, face buried in her hands. 

He arches an eyebrow, nudging closer, and hears her telling herself, like a promise, “You’re pretty, you’re pretty, you’re pretty . . .” It was in English, but he detected a light British accent. She seemed to be crying, but granted that she was in a circus, this “Circus of Freaks”, it didn’t take a while to wonder why. 

He whispers to her, throwing his voice, “Why do you cry, child?”

She turns around in a fright, hands lowering, and his eyes widen and jaw drops as he sees a teenage girl, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen, face split between corpse and goddess, staring at him with wide, mismatched eyes.

In an act that he will forever berate himself for, one he considered cowardly, he runs as quickly as he can away, sobs tearing from his throat as he collapses in an alley, against a brick wall and sliding down the expanse of it. He felt sick, but could only regurgitate stomach acid, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and burned his throat. 

He cried tears that had been long clogged within him, for the girl inside who was the same as he, for the broken, little boy inside of him that he’d left behind in a cage, much the same. He cried until he decided he would rescue her, this girl with the same deformity as him, but by the time he could stand, all the performers were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone struggles with depression, adhd, or ocd, or if any of these experiences seemed familiar to you in any way, PLEASE seek help. my inbox is ALWAYS open, if you ever need to talk or need guidance finding help. my user is the same on tumblr as it is here :). 
> 
> thank you so much for reading! and as always, if you have any guesses for the killer, i'd love to hear them! i love hearing your reactions as well! XD


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